Drafted
by Michael-Harambay
Summary: He didn't ask for this. He didn't ask to be taken from his home and thrown into a world at war. What was that saying, when life gives you lemons, make lemonade? Or: the adventures of a Cybertronian from Earth.
1. Chapter 1

"Who's the new guy?" Air Raid asked one day.

A winged mech had just walked past their table. At the time, Silverbolt hadn't known either; an oddity, considering he was the Aerial Commander and there weren't that many flyers to begin with. They watched the stranger get his ration and leave.

But his question would be answered soon enough. _Apparently_ Prime forgot to contact them beforehand - in reality, Prowl told them, he must have misplaced the memo - but it would hardly make a difference if he had.

The mech was assigned to their team.

A newbie? Seriously? Last time Air Raid checked, he and Silverbolt and Jetfire's trine - emphasis on _trine_ \- worked just fine. They weren't in the business of training noobs, that was Ironhide's job. Surely there were other squads that could have taken him. Air Raid checked, Prowl must have made a mistake - but no, he didn't. The stoic Second in Command simply told Air Raid when he stormed his office that he assigned mechs where best he saw fit, and that if the bomber disliked it so much, he could take it up with Ultra Magnus.

Naturally this failed to satisfy the testy aerialbot. In life and especially war, there was a certain need for balance; a balance the unknown quantity that was their new "teammate" threatened to disrupt. And then to add insult to injury, Draft was assigned to their trine's quarters.

Thanks to Air Raid, that lasted about a day.

Most mechs were bunked in the barracks at random, but Command had been kind (wise) enough not to randomly assign trines. Silverbolt wasn't sure what Air Raid said to Draft, or what Draft subsequently said to Prowl, but by the next orn they were all forwarded a second memo that detailed Draft would no longer stay in their quarters.

Strange. Silverbolt didn't know where else they had the room to put him - unless it was with the grounders in the barracks ( _shudder_ ).

But he noticed being booted from their quarters didn't have an effect when it came to teamwork. Draft followed orders the same, whether he was living with them or not. He seemed to care where he bunked even less than Air Raid. In fact, it was actually kind of funny, Jetfire confided in him over energon. How Draft's willingness to be on the team only made Air Raid madder.

"I've noticed it too."

"You have?"

"His... _enthusiasm_? I'm not sure how else to put it." Silverbolt confirmed, taking a sip of his ration. They were in the rec room. "I can tell he's throwing everything he has into our drills. He pushes himself."

"Maybe he wouldn't push himself so hard if Air Raid wasn't such an aft. Think about it."

Silverbolt thought about it. "This is _Air Raid_ we're talking about."

Jetfire rolled his optics. "Yes, but he's not usually like this. He ignores him half the time, and the other half won't shut up about his accent."

Silverbolt definitely knew what he meant by that. Anytime Draft decided to stick around after practice (which was rare), Air Raid wouldn't. And Draft did have an accent, when he deigned to speak more than two words at a time (which was even rarer). For the life of him he couldn't place it.

It certainly wasn't Vosian.

"What do you think of Draft?" Silverbolt asked.

Jetfire hummed a little. "Well, besides that way he talks, I don't see what's wrong with him. I'm sure he'll make a decent teammate."

"No no, what _about_ him? Doesn't he seem kind of...weird to you?" Silverbolt mentioned. Not that he was taking Air Raid's side. To him the whole assignment felt sort of off.

His Trinemate shrugged. "Maybe. But we hardly see him outside of practice - I don't know where the bloody Pit he gets off to in his free time."

That was another oddity to add to the mystery of "Draft". For all his seeming eagerness to join them, he never hung out with them off duty. Maybe he was shy? If that was the case, Air Raid's attitude certainly wasn't helping. Maybe the mech was simply avoiding him. But that wasn't right - they were teammates!

* * *

"So is st-st-stuttering stud coming, or what?" Air Raid laughed at the next practice. Draft would be the last to arrive. Slingshot elbowed him.

"Here he c-c-comes now."

"Knock it off you two," Silverbolt growled.

Air Raid ignored him. "Hey crankcase, you're late!"

"On time." Draft coolly replied, a slight wing twitch the only give away of annoyance.

"Being early is on time and being on time is late, kid."

They were having a joint training session with two of the other aerial squads today. Slingshot and Air Raid tended to egg each other on, much to Silverbolt's everlasting annoyance, and the commander hoped they wouldn't be like this the whole time.

"Alright, let's begin." Silverbolt said, getting all nine mechs' attention. "We haven't sparred in a while, so we'll start with that. Everyone pick a partner."

"Good thing there's an _even_ number of us." Air Raid commented loudly. Silverbolt and Jetfire glared at him in unison, while everyone else found a sparring buddy, but Air Raid just gave them an innocent look. Of course he hadn't meant it like that. If course he had.

Jetfire purposely paired up with Draft.

"Please don't actually try to kill each other," Silverbolt snorted before they all got started. "Or Ratchet's going to kill _me_."

That got some chuckles around the room. Draft's optics got comically huge as he and Jetfire circled each other, and he blurted, " _What_?!"

"He doesn't mean literally. Oh, I forgot, since you're new and all. Ratchet's based in Iacon - if you haven't met him yet, don't worry, you will." Jetfire chuckled. Did Draft seriously think that?

He feinted but the other had enough sense to block. Once more looking for an opening, Jetfire decided to press his luck. He was a scientist, Draft was an enigma. Scientists tended to solve those kind of things.

"I take it you're a transfer? Prowl wasn't too specific on the details."

That was probably it, as anyone green wouldn't be put on the leading aerial squad. But what he really wanted to ask was why the mech's public file was empty.

 _One thing at a time, Jetfire_ , Jetfire thought to himself, as Draft swiftly evaded another attack. He doubted the guy was the kind to spill his life's story. The empty file thing was curious, though. No one (that he knew of) had a completely empty file. What, up until now did he not exist? Jetfire bet there was an interesting story behind that.

Draft frowned. "S-Something like..th-that."

"I'm hearing a lot of talking from you femmes and not much fighting." Silverbolt called to the room in general, though he was looking at Slingshot and Air Raid when he said it. Jetfire nodded to himself, and immediately began a flurry of offensive kicks and punches in earnest.

Amazingly, he found he couldn't land a single hit. His shorter opponent made dodging his grabs look easy; it was more like they were doing a jerky dance than fighting. How was this little slagger so fast?

"I see you're skilled in the ways of dodging," The scientist joked amiably. "But lets see you attack."

...Perhaps he shouldn't have said that. Jetfire distinctly remembered thinking ' _oh-no'_ at the mech's sudden shy, excited expression (it was kind of adorable), and the next thing he knew he was on his back with the wind knocked out of him.

Alrighty then.

"Hey hey, what did I just say?!" Silverbolt snapped, the loud _BANG_ from Jetfire colliding with the floor making several people pause.

"A rhyme?" Someone else said.

An orange and grey mech that had been grappling with his partner next to them eagerly clapped his servos. "Whoa, that was so cool! Will you teach _me_ how to do that? Do it again!"

Draft just blinked at the unsolicited request as his sparring buddy got off the floor. "Let's...maybe not do that again...Fireflight," Jetfire wheezed, catching his breath.

"No no, I'm with Fireflight on this one." Skydive, who'd partnered with Fireflight, said. He was always one for new techniques, new tactics. They looked expectantly at Draft who started to look uncomfortable at the attention.

Sensing this, Jetfire got back into his fighting stance. "I was joking mech, it's fine," he said. "Lighten up."

Less eager to fight than before, Draft nodded. "I, uh, s-sure."

Draft got back in position. At an unseen signal, Jetfire attacked him again, this time going for a quick uppercut. Only to be unceremoniously tossed back on the floor.

Oww.

"Interesting." Was all Skydive said, though he was very interested. What fighting style was that?

"Nice one!" Fireflight praised at Jetfire's expense. "How did you get him to fall over you like that?"

"Umm," Draft nervously laughed, rubbing the back of his helm. "His w-weight. I used...against h-him."

Draft's smile at the compliment somewhat faded, and Jetfire wondered if it was because he was aware he had talked kind of weird just now. Now that was a thought, the jet pondered. No wonder Draft didn't talk much, if it embarrassed him. Could he not control his weird pattern of speech? Was it some kind of glitch?

Fireflight didn't seem to notice it. "Ooh, ooh, spar with me! Do you mind, Jetfire?"

"Not at all." Jetfire said, while in the background Skydive hung his head. Really, Fireflight?

Draft and Fireflight sparred the rest of the time, but Fireflight was nowhere near getting the strange technique down like he'd hoped when Silverbolt called it a day. He had to have been tackled/thrown down like a hundred times!

"What's so funny?" Silverbolt asked Jetfire as they exited behind everyone else. Normally after an exercise involving several teams, everyone would stampede to the rec room to hang out and generally be a nuisance.

Jetfire nodded towards the front of the group, where Fireflight was animatedly talking to (more like at) the clearly more conservative Draft. The difference in their demeanors was astounding.

"I think Fireflight just made a new friend."

* * *

It was getting late. Draft sighed, putting his datapad away. Time among his fellow Cybertronians seemed to move more slowly; he felt like he'd been gone a couple of months, yet according to his calculations, it was only Christmas time back home. Maybe that was because the people here didn't sleep as often.

 _Christmas_.

The thought depressed him. How were his parents doing? His sister, Haley? Or his friends at the university? They wouldn't even know he'd been taken off world. Were they searching for him? He would definitely miss the big going-away party Beck hosted every year the day after finals, before everyone left for the holidays.

/ _Where are you? It's getting late_./

/ _ **Do I have a**_ **curfew** _**now too? I'll sleep when I feel like it**_ _._ / Draft spat at his "guardian" over the comm, in English, just to spite him.

/ _If you want to recharge in the hallway, be my guest, because I'm locking the door in a quarter of a joor. And what did we talk about?_ /

Draft had to admit, he _was_ tired. Today's training had been fun but rigorous.

/ _ **Fine**_ / Draft growled, signing off and getting up. Oh how he hated him. If he wanted to stay up all night sulking, it was nobody's business but his own. He made it the long way back to the officers' quarters and absently knocked on the appropriate door, forgetting Cybertronians didn't slap doors with their knuckles to signal their arrival.

"That's not how you ask." Came the muffled reprimand through the door. Scowling at its polished surface, Draft sent the room's occupant a ping like he knew was wanted. The door opened. Ultra Magnus fixed him with a stern look.

"You're late."

"I'm on t-time."

"Being on time _is_ late." The Autobot's official unofficial fourth in command said as Draft slipped past him. Draft thought he remembered Air Raid saying something like that earlier.

" **I was busy."**

"You do _not_ use that language in these quarters," Ultra Magnus corrected, narrowing his optics as he lumbered after him. "Busy doing what?"

" **The readings?"** Draft said, defiantly still in his native tongue. He held up the datapad Ultra Magnus had given given him as homework. It contained history documents, math lessons, and other such things a mech his age should know by now.

Ultra Magnus sighed. "The more you use that primitive language, the more difficult assimilating Standard will be."

" **It's. Not.** _ **Primitive**_ **."** Draft hissed, flopping down on the main room's couch.

Ultra Magnus stood in front of him, equally as stubborn. At least they had one thing in common. "Yes, _it is_." He growled. "It's so simple a scraplet could learn it."

" _ **Your**_ **language is just complicated."**

"It's your language too! Just like Cybertron is your home. Forget what those meat-sacs taught you, you're where you belong now, and you'd better start acting like it. That was deal."

Draft abruptly rage-pitched the datapad at Ultra Magnus, who neatly caught it, before hopping over the back of the couch to get away from him. Not the most polite conversation stopper, but he hadn't exactly had a good day. First dealing with the likes of Air Raid (God that guy just wouldn't quit!) and pretending like he knew what he was doing, and now another lecture about how he wasn't trying hard enough? Please. He shouldn't have to be trying at all.

"You do not throw things at people. Get back here."

" **No!"**

Draft stomped to "his" room, locking the door behind him. He knew he was being childish and only proving Ultra Magnus's point, but at the moment he was too irked to care. This may be his room for now, but it would never be his home. His war.

"Open the door, Draft." Ultra Magnus's muffled voice drifted through the door.

" **Go away!"**

"Youngling, I order you to open this door."

Draft scowled at the wall, determined not to get off his berth and let him in. He wasn't a fucking _youngling_ either. He was twenty years old, for crying out loud!

Eventually Ultra Magnus gave up with a stern and muffled warning that he would learn to respect his elders. Draft laid down on his berth, for the millionth time aching (literally) for a mattress or at least some pillows or a blanket or something. Not that he technically needed them. He wasn't that soft. And since he was made of metal, his frame didn't need a cushy material to sleep on like his family did. But it was what he was used to, and he missed it. Regardless of necessity, any mattress would have beat the metal slabs Cybertronians called a bed by a mile.

And he fell asleep, aching for home.

* * *

 **Hello! Just had this little plot stuck in my head.**


	2. Chapter 2

"So what's with the new guy, he can't talk or some slag?"

That was Blades, who was standing uncomfortably close to his audio. Springer shoved him out of his personal space with a huff of annoyance.

"What makes you think _I'd_ know?"

Blades didn't slip on the slick floor from the push. Instead he moved to lean against the wall, still close enough for conversation over the rushing _SSSSHHHHHH_ of solvent spray. They were in the washracks.

"Groove saw you get off Ultra Magnus's ship with him in the shuttle bay. How come he can't talk?"

"What are you talking about? Of course he can."

"You know what I mean," Blades said. "I hear he chokes up worse than a greased engine."

Springer scowled, though only half of it was really directed at Blades. That kid…. "He's got a speech problem, okay? I'd lay off if I were you."

Technically not a lie.

The other helicopter looked surprised but then pleased he'd come to the right mech. "So you _do_ know him. Where's he from then?" He pressed, getting a polishing cloth out of subspace. "He's not a Wrecker, and besides, his public file's empty. He a transfer? What's he specialize in?"

Springer chuckled. "And why are _you_ so interested?"

Blades shrugged, rubbing the polishing cloth in circles on his arm. "I mean honestly, who isn't? You see that aft?" He snickered. "Now _that's_ symmetry."

Abruptly Springer wasn't laughing anymore. In fact, he looked really peeved.

"Leave him alone, Blades." He growled, turning off the shower with a quick jab to the wall mounted buttons. He knew that tone. Blades was well known for bunking around, especially with flight frames, and once his friend acquired a target he didn't easily lose it.

"What, is he taken?" Like that would be a deterrent.

"Look, just...it won't end well. Trust me on this," Springer urged. "You do _not_ want to get involved with this one."

Blades frowned as he stepped out of another mech's way. It was just past third-shift; the washracks were fairly crowded for this time of cycle.

"What do you mean it won't end well? For him or me? _Springer_?"

But Springer was now moving for the exit, already beyond done with this conversation. If Blades only knew. "Don't try anything, Blades," he gave in final warning. "I'm serious."

Now that he was all squeaky clean and ready to present, Springer really had a meeting to get to. Blades watched him go, before deciding to head back to his team's quarters, a smirk plastered on his face whole way.

Was that a challenge?

* * *

Draft frowned. He was...bored. Yeah, that's what he was. Well, as bored as one could be surrounded by aliens.

 _Not aliens_ , he had to remind himself, as he eyed the current occupants of the rec room. It was like a scene out of a movie. A few months ago he'd never seen anything like him, and now there was a whole planet full of them. For once, he was among his own kind.

So why did he feel like an alien?

Maybe it had something to do with the weapons each mech - each soldier - sported. These people were at war. Had been for apparently _millions_ of years (Draft had been astounded to learn he would live that long. In his Earthly perspective, that meant he was practically immortal.)

He felt like such the civilian around them. He'd never given much thought into joining the military back home, and never imagined he'd be conscripted into service like this; kidnapped and forced to act the part. Okay maybe not forced. It was an agreement of sorts, his kidnappers keeping his whole age thing on the down low as long as he put in the effort to "assimilate", whatever that meant. What was this, the Borg? But it beat being treated like a child because of the whole ridiculously long lifespan thing.

/ _Stop sulking you half-bit._ /

Draft perked up. The only numbers currently programmed into his comm were those of the Wreckers and his new teammates. Who-

Oh. Twin Twist was sitting at a table nearby.

/ _I'm n-not sulking_./

/ _You call sitting by yourself not sulking? You finished that cube half a joor ago./_

/ _So?_ / Draft said, mentally figuring how long a joor was again.

/ _So go have fun or something. Stop looking miserable_./

 _/You kn-know, I wouldn't be_ _miserable if you guys hadn't-_

/- _Oh for the love of Primus don't start that slag again, I thought you learned it'll get you nowhere. You're stuck here. Accept it. Now go make some friends or something_./ Twin Twist interrupted. The mech sounded genuinely concerned, though Draft dismissed it. As if. People didn't kidnap people they were genuinely concerned for.

However Twin Twist did have a point, he had spent a lot of time in here. Draft stood. No one was magically going to fix his boredom for him. Unfortunately, he doubted there was much to do on a military base that wasn't, you know, military related. He didn't even know where else he was _allowed_ to go, other than his room.

 _I guess I could go for a nap._

 **...**

Draft awoke feeling something wasn't quite right. Not because he had doubtless overslept, but because when he onlined his optics, all he saw was the floor above him. Or should he say, _below_ him.

What the fuck? Why was he attached to the ceiling? _How_? Twisting, he didn't see or feel anything physically restraining him.

"Ultra Magnus!" He yelled.

Draft doubted the big mech would do this in revenge for throwing that datapad at him last night (as he had done far worse trying escape him and the other Wreckers earlier). Besides, being immature or having any iota of fun seemed beneath him.

No response.

Draft flailed some more, arms and legs dangling useless. " **Ultra Magnus, you there?!"**

Still nothing. Well, this was just great. How was he supposed to get down? What the hell even was this? He'd only been here four days, which was hardly long enough to get on anyone's bad side minus Air Raid. But that asshole was the opposite of stealthy.

/ _Jetfire to Draft_./

Draft quit struggling, thoughts of the possible culprit grinding to a halt. / _Uh_... _Draft here. W-What?_ /

/ _Care to join Silverbolt and I for some breakfast before patrol?_ /

Oh yeah, Draft forgot. His first on base patrol was today. How was he supposed to do that if he couldn't get down? He imagined the military, regardless of species, didn't take tardiness lightly. Ultra Magnus certainly wouldn't.

/ _Actually/_ Draft replied, swallowing his pride. / _you...g-going to think I...I'm, crazy, but I swear I'm...glue to the ceiling_./

There was a pause. Draft imagined Jetfire and and his commander laughing about how retarded that sounded, but then Jetfire's voice groaned over the line,

/ _Not again! Tell me where you are mech, I'll help you get down._ /

Again? _Again_? What the hell did he mean, again? The way he said that so nonchalantly made Draft wonder if this was considered normal. What kind of place was this?

/ _Umm...does this h-happen...lots?_ / Draft had to ask, unable to think of the Cybertronian word for "often".

/ _Yup, all the time, you're not_ special./

That was Air Raid's voice, having apparently been enlightened to the situation by either Jetfire or Silverbolt. Lovely.

Jetfire asked, / _Where are you?_ /

Draft sighed, trying to break free one last time before giving in to the humiliation sure to come. / _Ultra Magnus's quarters_./ he grumbled.

There was another pause.

/ _The frag are you doing in_ Ultra Magnus's _quarters?!_ / Air Raid demanded. / _Has he seen you yet? Wait, never mind. Jetfire, can we puh-lease wait until_ after ' _Magnus sees this?_ /

/ _We have a patrol to run._ / Jetfire sounded annoyed.

/ _Aww_./

/ _We're on our way, Draft, so just-_ /

/ _-Hang in there!_ / Air Raid couldn't help but finish, and with a laugh he got off the comm before Skydive could kick him off.

Five minutes later three perplexed aerialbots were standing in his room.

"Oh, _nice_." Air Raid said. He couldn't stop snickering. At least Jetfire was trying to keep his expression under control. Silverbolt was the only one who didn't seem to find this funny, and embarrassed, Draft mentally cursed the other two. Why'd they bring the commander? When Draft had saluted him, still upside down, upon their arrival, Air Raid had broken into a hysterical fit of laughter.

"This looks like Sideswipe's usual work. I have some anti-adhesive from the time he got Fireflight." Jetfire was telling Silverbolt, who muttered something that sounded like "well then unstick him."

Who was Sideswipe?

Jetfire nodded, and rose using the thrusters in his peds to get at Draft. It turned out the younger Cybertronian's back had been glued to the ceiling. Within minutes - err, breems, Draft mentally corrected - he was free.

"You three, get to your duties." Silverbolt said. "Show's over." He left then, and Draft followed the other two into the hallway.

"So...patrol?" He asked, looking at Jetfire. What a way to start the day.

Jetfire nodded. "Yes."

* * *

Hot Spot was an observant mech, so he knew when one of his friends was upset. Be it Tracks when he got caught racing in the halls again, or Hoist when one of his projects fell through. He especially knew when it was one of his gestaltmates though, and so was waiting in their shared quarters with Streetwise and Groove for First Aid to get off shift. Blades was busy on monitor duty.

First Aid didn't look surprised when he came home to the ambush, though to be fair he didn't have a face. "Uh...hi guys?"

Hot Spot pointed to a chair. "Team meeting, minus Blades. Sit down."

"What's wrong?"

" _You,_ that's what's wrong." Streetwise accused, but Groove interrupted him.

"You've been feeling jittery all week mech, like you expect Megatron to waltz into the medbay."

Hot Spot nodded. "Yeah, it's distracting all of us. So out with it; what's got you so spooked?"

First Aid smiled behind his mask. He should have known. Amd Ultra Magnus should have known. Keeping a secret among a gestalt was like messing with Jazz and expecting to get away with it. You just didn't.

"Sorry guys." He apologized.

"Sorry doesn't fix anything." Streetwise said, relaxing into the couch next to Hot Spot. "Who's the aft we have to kick?"

" _Streetwise_ ," Groove hissed at the poor joke.

"Is it one of your patients?" Hot Spot asked.

"No…."

"Well then what _is_ it 'Aid? I'm tired of feeling paranoid when it isn't even me!" Streetwise demanded

"It's...look, it's classified, okay? Not even Ratchet knows. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you."

"Boo." Streetwise immediately objected. "We're trustworthy."

"That's not what I mean." First Aid began, but Hot Spot held up a servo. "Well then don't tell us. Not everything; you don't have to be specific. You want to talk about it."

He didn't phrase it like a question, because honestly, whatever it was, First Aid _did_ want to talk about it and they all knew it. First Aid shuffled his peds, considering if it would break his orders. Technically….

"I _can't_."

"Ughhh, _First Aaaaaaid_ ," Streetwise whined. "Can't you just say, like, we sensed some things through the gestalt bond, and then you had to explain from there? I mean, that's kinda true anyway. Come on, how about just the part that's making you angry?"

"I'm not angry." First Aid objected.

"You're downright furious, and don't think we don't know."

" _Hot Spot_." First Aid implored, ignoring Streetwise in favor of his oldest brother. Surely Hot Spot wasn't agreeing with this..this downright insubordination. But the gestalt leader shook his helm.

" 'Aid, how you feel is affecting all of us. If this were any other squadron I wouldn't ask you to disobey orders, but this isn't."

That their gestalt came before orders went unsaid. First Aid was going to regret this. "...Fine..."

Streetwise perked up, all audios. This better be good.

"There's a new recruit," First Aid began, wondering where to start. "He's not exactly normal. I mean, he's like everyone else, but he's kind of a...sparkling."

"Like he acts like one or is one?" Streetwise interrupted, earning himself an elbow from Hot Spot for the stupid question. What did sparklings, of which there no more created since the beginning of the war, have to do with anything?

"Like he _is_ one. Actually, both, I guess. His spark's physically a sparkling's, but he's been raised to believe he's an adult."

No one said anything for a minute, obviously struggling to believe him even though you couldn't lie to your gestalt. They could sense he was telling the truth.

"I think people would've noticed a little sparkling running around." Hot Spot finally said. That was an understatement. Surely there were a few still alive with the neutrals, but bringing one to a war zone? There'd be a stampede to see the little guy.

First Aid drummed his fingers thoughtfully. "Not so little. He has an adult frame."

"And, if I'm getting this right, he's been enlisted." Hot Spot realized. That explained why his brother was so angry. No way was that legal.

"We don't need troops _that_ badly." Streetwise snorted. "Does Prowl know? Prime? Optimus would never allow it."

First Aid shook his head. "Well, no, but that's the thing. Where he was living, everyone became an adult by 6-ish vorns, which is how old he is."

This time it was Groove who spoke, trying to be rhetorical. "On what planet?"

"On _**Earth**_."

"On what?"

"It's an organic planet. Class M world, with space capable sentients, though apparently they've only gone as far as their moon." First Aid explained, glad for the way Groove had phrased that. Over the eons Cybertronians had met a multitude of intelligent species. Many thought of organics as primitive, weaker beings, or simply barbaric beings. The Wreckers had discovered Earth on their way through the Sol galaxy, which held relatively little value besides a few more resources than usual. There they had found Draft. It wasn't hard, seeing as his unshielded spark signature was the only one on the planet.

"Anyway, that's not important, though you can't tell anyone about _that_ either." First Aid continued. "He grew up around organics. In fact, I don't think he'd ever seen another Cybertronian before his...rescuers...found him. I can't blame them for not leaving him behind, but he just won't listen to us. He thinks he's been _kidnapped_ , and only agreed to join the army because they threatened to put him back in a sparkling frame if he didn't."

"So, uh...what do _you_ have to do with this?" Hot Spot asked.

"Oh, they needed a qualified medic to do a physical when they arrived, or I guess if he gets injured, and I'm pretty sure Ratchet would have killed them by now." First Aid actually giggled at the mental image. A shouting match between Ratchet and Ultra Magnus would be legendary.

"They can't just..they can't just _do_ that." Streetwise sputtered. "Making a _sparkling_ serve in the army? Prime has to know!"

"He's not a complete sparkling." First Aid corrected, though he felt the same way. "He acts more mature than Sideswipe any day, and it's not like he's stupid. He's coming from a place where he functioned like an adult, it would be wrong to stick him in a sparkling frame against his will and baby him for the next 12 vorns. We don't have the resources for that. Anyway, I'm just...I've just been worried about him, I guess. This whole thing's crazy."

"Definitely." Hot Spot agreed. Vector Sigma, what a story. The gestalt leader had never heard of a Cybertronian being raised anywhere other than Cybertron. Before the war there had been strict laws about taking younglings below a certain age offworld. This had to be the first case in, like, ever.

Apparently thinking the same thing, Groove breathed, "Can you imagine the perspective he could give us? I mean, if we weren't at war right now. What you're saying is he was raised by organics, right? I bet Rung would love to meet him."

Rung was under Ratchet's command, and First Aid was acquainted with the eccentric psychologist. He thought of all the studies he or even Perceptor would put the poor kid through and nodded.

"He probably would, but you can't tell anyone, remember? I'm his designated medic, so _I_ know, and the people who brought him here know, but that's it."

Groove nodded, though he still had that thoughtful glint to his optics. Streetwise leaned forward.

"So, who is this guy?"

"His designation's _Draft_."

* * *

 **Chapter 2! Let me know what you think, I love getting reviews!**


	3. Chapter 3

"Heya mech. What's crackin'?"

"Go away." Draft growled, not even bothering to look up from the datapad he was reading while he walked. Whatever this guy wanted, he didn't care. He was far too busy and annoyed. Ultra Magnus had threatened to have his rations reduced again if he didn't finish the mech's fun little assignments, because _clearly_ he wasn't trying hard enough.

"Aww, I just wanted to say hello to the new recruit. Name's Sideswipe, sweetspark."

The use of the term "sweetspark" flew over Draft's head, but the name Sideswipe didn't.

"Wait...were you the one that pranked me yesterday?" Draft demanded, the anger he held towards Ultra Magnus's datapads now directing itself at the red mech. That had been so embarrassing, especially since Silverbolt had seen him in all his glued up glory. Sideswipe grinned.

"What's the matter, wake up on the wrong side of the roof? Haha w _hoa_ -"

To be honest, trying to punch Sideswipe wasn't Draft's best moment. Whether he did it out of anger or because he'd been around the wreckers too long (the wreckers punched each other incessantly; Draft swore they didn't have pain receptors) was anyone's guess. "Trying" to punch Sideswipe was a good description however, because he missed. Sideswipe saw the swing coming and ducked, and Draft didn't have time to register the yellow mech standing literally _right behind_ him until it was too late. Metal struck metal.

There was silence.

"L-Look **ma** - _mech_ , I'm really...sorry. I was aiming at _him_ ," Draft started to apologize. The yellow mech seemed stunned for a second, before straightening and rubbing his slightly dented jaw. If the murderous look he gave Draft hadn't been so terrifying, Draft would have marveled at so good a hit. As it was, he was only now realizing how very very bad a call that had been when the yellow mech bared his denta in a furious snarl. Twin blades unsubspaced with a _SHING_.

"You're _dead_." He growled.

"Whoa, bro, he didn't mean it frag-face," Sideswipe said quickly, jumping between them. "Sunny, he was trying to hit _me_."

"Don't call me that." 'Sunny' snapped, shoving Sideswipe out of the way. Draft backed up.

"L-look, uh, Sunny, I d-didn't mean-" Draft began, thinking Sunny was the mech's actual name and that he had been referring to the "frag-face" bit. At his name, the yellow mech lunged.

Draft's back slammed into the wall; there was a shoot of pain, and he looked at his left wing in astonishment.

What the-

Sunny had just stabbed him. The fuck? _Why?_ One of the silver blades was now pinning his wing to the wall, and only when he saw it, running his optics over the protruding hilt, did the pain actually hit home. He whimpered.

Sunny leaned in close, his optics nearly white with fury for some reason. Face inches away, he hissed, "Don't. _You_. Ever. Call. Me. That."

Draft headbutted him. Well, more like _face_ butted, but you get the idea. Because, well, this guy had just _stabbed_ him, you know? He figured there was no reason to be polite since according to Sunny, he was already dead.

His yellow assailant stumbled back, and in that moment Draft kicked out at him for good measure. The kick caught the surprised frontliner squarely in the temple, and he went down. Hard.

" _Sunny_!" Sideswipe yelled, as surprised as Draft was by the lucky hit. Sideswipe bent down and inspected the unconscious mech before standing back up. The two stared at each other for a click. Draft, pinned to the wall, was certain Sideswipe was figuring how slowest to dismember him, if the company he kept was any indication to the mech's own temperament. But to his confusion (and relief), the mech started grinning.

"You got him." Sideswipe giggled. Then he burst out laughing. " _Damn_ , you got him _goooood_! _Hahahaha_!"

Nervously, Draft joined in, but stopped his half-hearted chuckle when it moved his wing, which let him know just how much it didn't appreciate that.

Oh yeah, he'd kinda been _stabbed_.

"Woo, mech, that's classic," Sideswipe managed, apparently done laughing for the moment. Draft was starting to get tired of being laughed at while stuck to walls. "Cute _and_ deadly. I like it. And I think proper reintroductions are in order. That stabby idiot's my brother, Sunstreaker. Isn't he a hoot? And you already know me." Sideswipe laughed again.

That said, he bent down and grabbed his friend's arms with a flourish.

"It was nice meeting you!" The red mech called, dragging the frame down the hallway like a satanic lion hauling away it's kill in the Serengeti. "And good luck when he wakes up!"

"Wait, you're just going to _leave_ me here?!" Draft shouted back. Hello, he'd been stabbed!

"Why not?" Sideswipe's disembodied voice asked, having already dragged Sunstreaker around the corner.

"Your brother _stabbed_ me!"

"Yeah, he does that sometimes!"

"Ughhhhhh." Draft groaned, slapping his helm against the wall; he belonged to a race of psychopaths. What had Ultra Magnus said? That they'd been fighting this war for millennium?

No fucking wonder.

 **...**

Draft soon leaned the only thing he hated more than randomly getting stabbed was getting patched up _for_ said stabbing. He'd seen his fair share of angry people, and he liked making the Wreckers angry (minus Ultra Magnus). God knows he'd gotten in enough fights growing up; there were still people who thought he was nothing more than an overgrown Siri.

But this Ratchet guy took the cake.

"-all the rust-slagging, half-bit, processor glitched things to do…-"

The scary medic wasn't talking to him of course; right now, an unfortunate mech with fins sticking out of the side of his head was taking it like a champ. Draft wondered what the fins were for. From the few spots of paint visible, he guessed the mech must normally be grey; it was hard to tell through the soot that absolutely _covered_ him.

And oh yeah, he was missing his arm.

The mech caught Draft ogling him from the medbay entrance. "Don't worry, it's not as bad as it looks." He chuckled.

The statement caused Ratchet to turn around to see who he was talking to, and Draft cursed his luck as the fury the medic had been directing at this sooty guy now set its sights squarely on him.

"Who the Pit are you?" The medic barked. He noticed the knife still embedded in Draft's left wing; that had been a bitch to get out of the wall. "And the slag did you do?"

"Uh..uh...was..s-stabbed." Draft butchered. God, he sounded like _such_ a moron. Was this how high school students felt when they went on those stupid (and overly expensive) trips to Spain, when Spanish wasn't their first language?

"Your vocalizer fragged up too? _Sit down_." Ratchet snarled, pointing to an empty berth; he wasn't really in the mood for more idiots right now. The CMO swore they only came out of the woodwork when he was on shift.

Draft quickly did as he was told, though that rebellious part of him that reawakened everytime Ultra Magnus was near balked at the notion of being ordered to sit like a dog. But surely Ratchet hadn't meant it like that. These guys probably didn't even know what a dog was.

Ratchet apparently deemed his condition not life threatening, because he went back to fiddling with the mess of wires attached to the finned guy's shoulder where an arm should have been. Fascinated, Draft watched. After a breem he felt a light tap his shoulder.

" _Draft_? What happened?"

Draft glared at the familiar mech. "Hi First Aid."

It wasn't that he disliked the smaller medic. Hell, he didn't even know him that well if he was being honest. But First Aid was one of the few mechs who knew about his situation, and thus Draft equated him to being complicit in it. And if there was one thing the Earth mech couldn't stand (besides being glued to the ceiling, or getting stabbed, or getting yelled at by Ratchet for getting stabbed because he was kind of scary but in a non-Ultra Magnus way, or Air Raid, or his stupid quarters, or this stupid _war_ ), it was the people responsible for him being here in the first place.

"Oh, wow, that's deep."

"Uh-huh."

First Aid gently ran his fingers over the embedded blade, eliciting a yelp from Draft. " _ **Hey!"**_

"Sorry." He said. He knew how sensitive flyers' wings were. "I have to pull that out. Do you need painkillers before I do?"

"No." Draft said. Even if he didn't particularly like First Aid, he didn't want him thinking he was a wuss. He was a big bot.

"Okay...um, hold still I guess."

A burning sensation quickly spread in his left wing as he watched First Aid dig the knife out. Draft didn't like pain as much as the next guy, but had no qualms about watching medical procedures. His body was just a machine after all. Not to say _he_ was; but over the years, getting repaired by human mechanics tended to desensitized you to that kind of thing. When he'd first discovered he could transform, he'd crashed at least twice a week. The guys down at the local autoshop knew him by name.

"...Draft, hey, Draft?"

"What?" He'd been distracted. First Aid was holding the knife.

"Can I have that?" Draft said, not realizing he'd said that aloud until First Aid was handing it to him.

"Uh, sure?" The medic agreed, baffled. As it passed hands he asked, "Draft, who stabbed you with this?"

"I don't know. Besides, I kinda started it. Don't tell Ultra Magnus." Draft said distractedly, more occupied with examining the eloquently forged blade than explaining himself. And it was sort of true. He didn't think he _wanted_ to get to know Sunstreaker either.

 _CLANG_

Both Draft and First Aid looked up, in time with Wheeljack's loud " _oww_!"

Draft stared. Had Ratchet...had Ratchet just _hit_ that guy with a wrench? The heck?

"He does that sometimes." First Aid said, amused by the sparkling's expression. Draft silently thanked whatever deity was out there that he had First Aid working on him and not Ratchet.

Eventually First Aid released him, with the order to get some energon from the rec room, seeing as he'd lost some from the stab wound. Oh, Draft could _definitely_ do that. He reminded himself to add military rations to the growing list of things to hate. On top of that, Ultra Magnus had put him on even further reduced rations as punishment for throwing that datapad at him a week and a half ago.

But hey, now that he had a doctor's approval, Ultra Magnus could suck it. Time to get some well deserved energon.

 **...**

Standing in the door to the rec room, Draft had to refresh his optics. Twice. He'd never _seen_ this many people in the enormous room before. Every table was full, with other groups just standing around, and the loud chatter of at least 200 people assaulted his audios. It looked like half the freaking army was in here. Was there some kind of party going on?

He nervously made to leave - guess he wasn't that hungry - when a red arm draped itself firmly across his shoulders. Draft jumped thinking it was Sideswipe (surely Sunstreaker wasn't far behind), but apparently the universe didn't completely hate him. He offered a shy smile.

The stranger returned it. "You're the new guy! Right?! _Draft_?!"

"Yeah, that's me!" Draft shouted back over the din.

"Name's Powerglide! Join me?! We got a table over there!" Powerglide jerked his head towards the back of the room. Draft only hesitated for a moment. Twin Twist's words came back to him. He could stand to make some friends.

"S-Sure!"

Draft weaved his way through the crowd after him, sticking close. On the way he bumped into a grey mech, who excused himself though he gave Draft a strange look. Draft was too busy staring at the various frames to notice. He'd never been around so many mechs in one place before. It was weirdly exciting, but also scary in its own way. Definitely not Kansas anymore.

"Guys, this is Draft!" Powerglide said, offering for Draft to take the inside seat at the booth before sliding in after him.

"Hey, I heard about you." A black and orange mech said. He laughed. "You know you're dead when Sunstreaker wakes up, right?"

Draft just stared at him. How-

"I was on monitor duty. Name's Trailbreaker."

Oh. Draft stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you." He quickly lowered it when Trailbreaker just looked at him.

Right. Earth customs.

"Wait, what did you do to Sunstreaker?" The purple guy sitting across from Powerglide asked, saving Draft from his awkwardness.

"He punched him in the face, then knocked him out." Trailbreaker answered before Draft could, smirking. Powerglide and the purple guy looked astounded.

"You did _what_?!"

"No way!"

"Mech," Powerglide chuckled. He elbowed Draft. "I swear, you got ball bearings of _steel_."

The way he said that made Draft slightly uncomfortable, though he didn't know why. Draft looked at Trailbreaker. "Is..this some k-kind of..uh, party?"

"You don't _know_?" Purple guy gasped. "We won!"

Draft smiled. "The war? Great." Everyone laughed, and Draft joined in, realizing how stupid that must have just sounded. Good thing they thought that was a joke.

"Prowl actually authorized this, can you believe it? And I heard Blaster's coming too, soon as he gets off shift. Then it'll _really_ be a party." Powerglide said. "Hey, you want some highgrade? It's unlimited for the next two joors."

"Sure?" Draft said. Now, he wasn't a hundred percent sure what highgrade was, but the Wreckers had mentioned it a few times and it sounded like something one wanted. He bet it was like, really fancy energon. Lord knows the rest of this stuff was bland. He missed the gas and oil he'd been living off of on Earth, even if the stuff clogged his lines and tank, making his systems have to be flushed every so often like a human going to the bathroom. The Wreckers had been horrified to learn he did that on a regular basis.

Trailbreaker got up and returned a minute later with three cubes. Draft looked into his cube as Purple, who's name he'd yet to hear, regaled them with tales from the recent battle. So, it was a battle they were celebrating. Apparently it was important, and had gone well. Cool. The highgrade was sweet and left a buzzy taste in his mouth.

"So where are you from, Draft? Prowl recruit you?" Trailbreaker asked. They all looked at him expectantly.

"Actually, I'm fr-from Polyhex." Draft said, reciting the lie Impactor had concocted for him should anyone ask. "My **fam** - _unit_ and I were s-separated during the...attack. On it. They didn't...survive."

"I'm so sorry." Powerglide said, laying a servo on Draft's shoulder. Everyone else at the table likewise expressed their condolences; many Autobots swelled the ranks for similar reasons. Damn 'Cons.

Draft took another swig of his highgrade. Man, this stuff was _good_.

"You guys hear about Blaze?" Trailbreaker said. Purple guy and Powerglide shook their heads, so the black mech continued. "He grounded twelve Seekers in this battle alone. I heard Prime's gonna give him, like, a medal or something."

"Damn, he should join the Wreckers." Purple guy laughed. And just like that the conversation shifted back to Draft. "Hey, you know those guys right?"

"Uh, y-yeah." Draft stuttered. Could they please talk about something else?

"You with any of them? People saying you got of the ship with them when they got back from that mission earlier. Don't tell me you're one of them."

"Do I _look_ like a wrecker to you?" Draft snorted, pronouncing his Standard correctly.

Trailbreaker shrugged. "True."

"You look like you could hold your own to _me_." Powerglide defended with another friendly nudge. He was about to say something else but stopped. He grinned.

"Blaster's here."

That got everyone's attention. A boxy red and gold mech was setting up some kind of equipment in the corner. Draft was totally digging the guy's white visor. Man, he needed a mod like that. Despite being an army, the Autobots weren't even remotely uniform in appearance like human armies (which Draft personally thought looked unprofessional). Draft's armor was just basic flight armor the Wreckers had forged for him on the trip from Earth, seeing as before getting kidnapped he didn't wear any armor at all. Draft suddenly felt self conscious; he was pretty sure even the cleaning drones looked cooler than him.

Powerglide handed Draft another cube as he stared, noticing his first was empty. "It's about to get loud!" He laughed. Trailbreaker pretended to cover his audios, and Draft just blinked. Then a wall of sound pounded them.

"Femme's and gentle mechs, I just want to say, what a victory well done!" That had to be Blaster's voice, the speakers carrying it throughout the room the way clouds echoed thunder. "Till All Are One!"

" _Till All Are One_!" Everyone shouted back, minus Draft who had no clue what the phrase meant. But it seemed to be a toast, because Powerglide, Trailbreaker, and Purple each took a big swig of their cubes. Draft copied them, not wanting to be left out or come off as weird or something. These guys seemed nice and he was happy. That pleasant buzzing in his mouth was starting to spreadl. He was happy.

The sound of bass picked up, and the weirdest cacophony to ever call itself music filled the air. _This_ was Cybertronian music? Draft pondered, attempting to absorb the sound over his table's conversation and the room's chatter. It was almost like a weird blend of techno and trap, but foreign all the same. Draft was swept up in the beat.

Hey, why was the room so spinny?

"... _Draft…."_

Draft looked at Powerglide slowly. He blinked. " **What?"**

Damn it, he'd been distracted. Powerglide leaned in really close in order, Draft assumed, to be heard over the music.

"I said, do you want to get out of here?" He said. Draft didn't answer, too busy wondering why the mech had helm spikes. Hey, he wanted helm spikes. Man, again, why did everyone else get to look _cooler_ than him?

He absently let Powerglide lead him out of the booth.

"We're gonna go, see ya guys later." The red flyer was saying. Trailbreaker and Purple guy - ha! He looked like a flower! - bid them goodbye. The hand holding his guided him through the partying robots, and twice Draft almost lost his balance.

" **Where...going."** The world was getting _really_ spinny. A firm hand on his shoulder kept him from falling, and it guided him down the empty halls. Most mechs were either on shift (sucked to be them) or at the victory party.

"We're almost *haha* there. You want to...see a real party?" Powerglide giggled. He wasn't nearly as overcharged as Draft, who felt like he was a second away from flying into space, but he _was_ tipsy.

Powerglide palmed open the door to his quarters and the pair stumbled inside.

Draft immediately felt strong arms wrap around him in a hug. Did this mean they were friends? He giggled, returning the hug. Yay! Friendship hug!

Then something pressed forcefully against his mouth. Draft would have frowned if he could have. As it was, he tried to break away from unwanted kiss, but his feeble pushing didn't seem to have the desired effect.

" **H-hey…..ssssstop."** Draft slurred. He didn't like this kind of hugging anymore. Something wasn't right, but what was it? He distantly felt hands searching along his armor, and heard the audible "click" that was his right shoulder guard coming unattached.

" **I don...ssstop."** Something was definitely wrong. He tried pushing Powerglide off - maybe that was the source of the wrongness - and the prodding hands found his other shoulder guard.

The armor fell to the floor with a metallic _ting_.

Draft fell too, back onto something flat as something fell on top of him. It pinned him. His wings, he was crushing his wings! It hurt!

" **Ssstop! My...my** _ **wing**_ **ssss..."** Draft choked out. It was hard to vent like this, and he squirmed as his friend - no, not a friend, his hazy processor corrected - stole another greedy kiss. **"Ssstop..."**

* * *

 **Thanks for the reviews!**


	4. Chapter 4

It was well into mid morning by the time Draft finally woke up. Normally, he'd be greeted by walls as grey and bleak as his new life was sure to be. But slowly, mind sluggish, Draft realized he wasn't in Ultra Magnus's spare room. Sitting up, he instantly regretted it when a headache hit him harder than one of Springer's fists. What the-

"Oh, you're awake."

He wasn't alone. There was a big blue guy sitting over there, in this...destroyed…room. Huh. Whose quarters were these? And why did they look like Swiss cheese?

Hey, that rhymed. His head hurt.

"I take it you're regretting your life decisions right now?" The stranger chuckled.

"Hurts." Draft grunted.

"Well yeah. You had a ton of highgrade, what'd you expect?"

Draft looked at the floor. "N-Not th-this." Man, what _was_ this? His processor felt like it was on the receiving end of a sledge hammer. And, less importantly, who was this guy?

"Are th-these your quart..ers?" Draft mumbled, stumbling over the correct form of the "these" as opposed to "those".

The mech nodded. "Yes. Sorry it's a bit of a mess right now. Do you remember anything from last cycle?"

"I was at the p-party with...Powerglide? Some..thing fell on m-me." Draft stuttered, looking up as another mech entered the room. "W-What's your **na** - _designation_?"

"Streetwise." Streetwise said, forcing himself not to "aww" over how adorably flustered the sparkling was. Baby's first hangover.

The blue mech added, "-and I'm Hot Spot."

"Nice t-to...meet you. I mean, unless I sh-should know you." Draft corrected, rubbing his temple. "W-What am I d-doing here?"

Damn, even through his headache Draft could hear how awful he sounded. Also, Was this the robot version of a hangover? The grey mech who had introduced himself as Streetwise snickered,

"Mech, you were so overcharged I had to pull you and another guy apart. Then you crashed on our couch."

Technically not a lie, and if Draft didn't remember last night, then who were they to tell him? Most flyers were naturally lightweights, so it wasn't hard to imagine he had memory-file corruption.

Hot Spot sincerely hoped this was the case. Primus knew the kid was already traumatized enough as it was, being raised by organics. And after what Powerglide did to him...yeah, it was a good thing Draft didn't remember.

He knew they'd never let Powerglide forget.

"You don't remember?" Hot Spot acted surprised.

"N-no. Sorry?" Draft tried, making a face. "Thanks f-for letting me c-crash."

"Hey, I got something that can help with that," Streetwise offered, recognizing the universal hangover expression. He'd worn it many times himself.

" _Please_."

Streetwise fished around in his subspace while Hot Spot wondered if Draft always sounded this bad, or if it was just the hangover. Yikes.

Pulling out a sealed cube, Streetwise tossed it lightly to Draft; it was one of First Aid's mixes. The sparkling didn't even question what was in it before breaking the seal and gulping it like it was the best thing since Primus.

 _/Hot Spot!_ / Silverbolt suddenly thundered over the comm. Hot Spot jerked, surprising Draft. He motioned to his audio. "Comm."

/ _Yes, Silverbolt_?/

The only Autobot gestalt leaders were naturally close, and Hot Spot knew the aerialbot's tone was one of frustration rather than fury.

/ _Are you aware of your subordinates' activities_?!/

Using the s-word instead of "brothers". Maybe he'd spoken too soon. / _I take it I'm about to be_?/

/ _They have completely destroyed Anode and Powerglide's quarters_!/

/ _What makes you think it was them_?/

/ _Why else would Streetwise ask Anode it's location last cycle? According to security feeds, Streetwise was absent from the party for over a joor_./

Hot Spot frowned. Poor Anode. Whatever his brothers did, doubtless the snooty scientist's half of the room had become collateral damage.

/ _And the security feeds during that time_?/

/ _Have been tampered with_./ Silverbolt growled.

Yeah, no slag. Hot Spot had specifically told Blades to do something about the hallway footage (though what they had apparently done afterward was a mystery), because it would have shown Streetwise storming Powerglide's quarters, and later dragging the inebriated sparkling back to theirs. It was a wonder Red Alert wasn't the one breathing down his neck.

/ _Don't worry, he'll be punished._ /. Hot Spot lied.

/ _See to it he is. Silverbolt out_./

Hot Spot didn't need someone else telling him what to do with his gestalt, but he didn't begrudge Silverbolt. He'd be just as annoyed if Slingshot or Air Raid messed with someone under _his_ command. Although, Silverbolt would probably never know how much Powerglide deserved it.

Hot Spot quickly got on their team's frequency. / _Really guys? Are you sparklings_?/

/ _No, but speaking of him how is he_?/ Groove replied immediately.

/ _Kid's pretty ruffled. Did you guys mess with Powerglide's quarters_?/

/ _Yeah. What, did he go crying to Silverbolt?_ / Blades sneered. Powerglide, as a flyer, was under Silverbolt's command the same as Draft.

/ _No, it was Anode. And obviously you're not. I was just comming to say good job, but if he asks you both got extra cleaning detail for a groon. Compute_?/

/ _No complaints here_./

/ _Sure thing_./

/ _Got it_./

/…./

/ _First Aid_?/ Hot Spot fished. He knew their youngest was listening.

/ _Don't involve me, I was in the medbay the whole time_./

"Hey, you want to hit the rec room and get some real energon? Might make your tank settle." Streetwise asked Draft, no sign that he was a part of Hot Spot's group chat.

"Y-yeah, okay." Draft agreed readily enough.

Hence ten minutes later he found himself sandwiched between the two of them. The rec room wasn't nearly as crowded as the night before, and the pleasant hum of conversation was a good contrast to the screaming match talking at the party had been. Draft found himself occasionally peering around Hot Spot's big frame for any sign of a Wrecker or Ultra Magnus. This was the first time he'd failed to follow curfew. That didn't bode well. Hot Spot meanwhile waved an orange mech over.

The mech looked at Draft. "Have we met before? I'm Rotor."

"Hi. Uh, _Draft_." Draft said. He had to resist the urge to attempt a handshake again. Rotar sat down and immediately said,

"Hot Spot, you hear the news?"

"what news?" Hot Spot asked.

"Elita's back in town."

" _Pffft_! What?!" Streetwise coughed, having just taken a sip of his ration. He sat up straighter. "Since _when_?!"

Draft had no idea who Elita was, but he must have been an important guy. Hot Spot chuckled. "I bet that makes Prime happy."

"Forget Prime! That makes _me_ happy. That means the other femmes are back too, right?" Streetwise pressed, shooting a (totally) subtle look at the rec room's entrance. Draft followed his gaze. What was a femme?

Rotor leaned forward conspiratorially. "There's something else. I heard they got a _sparkling_ with them."

Now it was Hot Spot's turn to almost choke on his energon. Streetwise looked likewise suddenly unenthused with the topic, and both couldn't help but give Draft a glance. The flyer was hunched in his seat, his cube now the most fascinating thing in the world _._

Rotor failed to notice. "Can you believe it? I can't wait to see the little guy. This is fantastic!"

"Wow, that _is_ just…," Streetwise tried, at a loss for what to say considering current company.

"Crazy." Hot Spot finished for him. Draft didn't comment, still staring clench-jawed at his enegon.

/ _I think we broke him_./ Streetwise commed.

/ _How would you react_?/

/ _First Aid is gonna kill us_./

Hot Spot frowned. / _Come on_ , _First Aid couldn't kill a scraplet_./

/ _Fine, then Ultra Magnus is gonna kill us._ / Streetwise corrected. While First Aid hadn't told them who rescued Draft, Groove had seen him come off the Wreckers' ship while on monitor duty two weeks ago. It wasn't hard to guess who had enough pull to pull this off.

/ ' _Spot, I think he's gonna glitch_./

"Isn't that great mech? We got a sparkling on base. What a miracle." Hot Spot laughed, with a smile purposely clapping a hand on the flyer's shoulder. Success! Draft flinched, trance broken.

"Y-yeah."

Actually, Draft didn't know how he felt about that. Sparkling? As in like him? No, _not_ like him, Draft mentally corrected. He was an adult, and he would always be an adult, his people and their ridiculously long lifespans be damned. His musings were cut short when a flyer he recognized from his last training session - Skydive? - came up to their table.

Skydive canted his helm. "Uh, Draft?"

"Yes?"

"You _do_ know we have a scheduled training session in five breems?"

" **Crap."** Draft muttered, standing up. Hot Spot politely moved aside, wondering what that strange sound meant.

"Come on." Skydive said.

* * *

"Alright you femmes, that's enough!"

Silverbolt's voice cut above the _CHOOM CHOOM_ of blaster fire, and eventually people stopped firing rounds. Except Slingshot. Because he'd be damned if his wasn't the last.

"Okay," Silverbolt said, once everyone was paying attention. "I feel like we got some good work done today-"

"-That's because _you_ didn't get shot!" Air Raid laughed, his frame indeed a collage of purple. Slingshot snickered as Silverbolt told him to shut up with his face.

"As I was _saying_ , good work, but there's room for improvement. I know you're saving your best for the 'Cons, but that's no reason to let your guard down. That includes you, Fireflight."

Fireflight had the decency to look sheepish; as compared to Air Raid, who was mostly covered in paint, he was completely covered.

Silverbolt briefly flitted his his optics towards Draft, who was busily finding something of interest on the floor. "Draft, Fireflight, I need to talk to you for an astro-second. The rest of you hit the 'racks. You look as bad as your aim."

There was a smattering of laughter, and with Slingshot's whoop of "Green team best team!" the rest of the guys beat it. Draft's wings drooped in preparation for what was coming. Yeah, he knew he hadn't done so hot. Not sure what Fireflight did. Silverbolt turned his attention on them.

"Fireflight, what was that?" The silver mech started, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If that was a real battle your armor would have more than paint on it. If it was still there."

"I'm really sorry 'Bolt. I didn't mean to lose focus like that."

Draft frowned. How come _he_ could call the commander 'Bolt?

"Just try to pay better attention next time, okay?" Silverbolt said, look softening. He clapped Fireflight's shoulder. "You're dismissed."

Fireflight smiled and nodded, before leaving with a backward glance at Draft. Draft steadied himself at Silverbolt's pointed look. Oh boy.

"Draft. Your performance left...much to be desired."

"Yes, sir." Draft said stiffly. Understatement of the year.

"I don't understand. You're a skilled fighter, but you barely got in five hits today. What happened?"

He was expecting an answer. Draft knew that. Draft also knew he couldn't give him the answer. Truth was, he'd never picked up a Cybertronian weapon before, practice rifle or not. Sure he'd shot a gun on Earth - his cousins were big into hunting - but that was different. The deer never shot back.

" _Well_?"

"I, uh, g-guess I wasn't thinking s-straight. Sir."

"Not thinking straight gets people killed, _rookie_." Silverbolt growled, wings hiked. "I expect to be impressed tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

"Good. Dismissed."

Didn't need to tell him twice. Draft turned heel and left like the devil was behind him. Outside the training room, Fireflight fell into step beside him.

"You okay? Silverbolt can get like that sometimes, you shouldn't take it personally."

" _Thanks_." Draft said peevishly, assuming the mech had listened in on his lame excuse. Fireflight had more paint on him, so how come he got off easy?

"I really like it when we train with the paint, though it's too bad we have to go to the washracks when we're done every time." Fireflight said.

"Yeah…" Draft muttered. Wait, washracks? You know, he'd never actually been there. On that line of thought, Draft realized he hadn't showered since his arrival. He let Fireflight take the lead but only slightly, so it looked like he knew where he was going. Soon enough the green coated flyer palmed open a large door, and Draft followed him in, soaking up this new part of the base in curiosity.

" **Shit!"** Draft yelped, averting his eyes. Too late. He didn't think he'd get _those_ images out of his mind.

"What's wrong?" Fireflight asked. Draft didn't look up, optics glued to the floor, when he quickly replied,

"I forgot, I have t-to go do...s-something. Bye-"

Draft spun around. Only to come face to face with Twin Twist.

" _Draft_? How's it going! You know Ultra Magnus is looking everywhere for you?" The wrecker greeted. "The frag are you covered in paint for?"

"Oh, hi uh, t-training exercise," Draft replied, preoccupied with calculating the best way to slip past him. But then the blue and white mech roped an arm around his neck and steered him further inside, leaving a befuddled Fireflight in their wake.

"So really, where _have_ you been? Did you go to that party the other orn? 'Cause if not, you really missed out!" He laughed, finally releasing Draft to mess with a control panel on the wall. He paused, maybe noticing Draft's discomfort.

"What? You shy or something?"

"You want me to…." Draft gaped, optic's widening in horror. "N-No way."

The wash racks weren't what he'd been expecting. There were a variety of buttons and control panels on the walls and a large pool at one end in which several people were currently soaking; Draft figured it must be filled with cleanser or something. The floor had lots of drains, and there were shower heads a plenty; all in all, it looked very nice.

Just no stalls….

"Oh please, who cares? We're all the same parts underneath." Twin Twist said, already beginning to remove his armor to expose the scarred protoform underneath. It was true, Cybertronians _did_ all look similar under their armor (Draft was sure there was a metaphor in there somewhere), but the Earth mech was doing his damned best not to discover how similar.

It was indecent, immodest, it was-

"Why in the allspark are you _still_ standing there? Right now if Ironhide called you a grease stain it would be a description not an insult." Twin Twist joked, but he was looking at him funny.

Thinking fast, Draft said, "It's just, I d-don't know how to...to work these-...," He motioned to the control panel in excuse.

Twin Twist looked confused, but the expression quickly darkened.

"You don't know how to work these are you _serious_? Am I correct then, in assuming, you haven't been in here before?" He said. He'd noticed the curious if somewhat flustered way Draft eyed the room and put two and two together.

"I… _yes_! I m-mean, not really...," Draft fibbed, scooting towards the entrance. "I think I'll wait. Till it's less c-crowded."

"Oh no you don't." Twin Twist growled, grabbing one of Draft's wings as he tried to escape. "Quit being stupid."

"Oww, _fragger_!" Draft snapped.

"Hey, what's going on?"

The two stopped their bickering at Springer's question. The green helicopter was standing in front of them, having already been in here, and Draft immediately looked away as decency and his upbringing demanded. Springer was unarmored too.

"Ask _him_. The glitch won't perform standard maintenance Springer, he hasn't in a deca-cycle."

A deca-cycle was the equivalent of two weeks in Earth time, nearly as long as he'd been on base. Springer's optics widened, and he looked to Draft for confirmation of such an outlandish claim. The youngling refused to look at him.

"Draft, is that true? Hey, _look_ at me when I'm talking to you." Springer said. Reluctantly it seemed, Draft met his optics and only his optics.

"Yes."

"And why not?" Springer asked, suddenly like Twin Twist _very_ annoyed. When they first rescued the sparkling, he'd refused to come to terms with it and attempted to starve himself. "If this is another one of your stupid games to get us to take you back to-"

" _Shhh_." Twin Twist hissed, cutting him off. The wash racks were decently crowded this time of orn, anyone could be listening. Draft's origins were to remain on the down low of they wanted to rehabilitate him. Springer knew that.

"It's not...I'm not trying to kill m-myself." Draft hissed. Again.

"Then _what_ is the problem?" Springer demanded.

Draft scowled, looking at the floor in sudden embarrassment. _Ummmmmm_ -

"I can't."

"Can't what?"

"Y-You know. Shower, or, uh, do m-maintenance. You know what I mean."

Springer and Twin Twist shared a mystified look. "Why not?"

"Because there's other p-people in here."

"Yeah. _So_?" Twin Twist said. That hardly seemed like a good reason to forgo a hot oil bath. Who gave a frag? "It's not even that crowded right now. There's plenty of room."

"No, It's just...not right. To see people. Without any **cloth** - _armor_ on." Draft stammered.

Springer rolled his optics. For the love of- "Is this some stupid organic thing?"

"You're such a glitch-head Draft, I'll never understand you." Twin Twist laughed. "Don't people on _Dirt_ take showers?"

They did. In fact, twice as often as Cybertronians, so it wasn't like personal hygiene was a foreign concept. He just believed getting naked in front of, like, a _bazillion_ people was wrong, as it should be. It was these assholes who were nuts.

"Draft, maybe that's how people operate on _Dirt_ , but it's not how we do things here. Take off your armor."

When Draft failed to move, Springer stepped forward. " _Now_."

"B-But-...!"

"Don't make me get Impactor and Roadbuster in here."

Draft bit his lip, he _knew_ it was futile, the same way he'd learned starving himself wouldn't be allowed. Like Ultra Magnus, Springer made good on his threats.

They'd done it before, too, when they first kidnapped him - taken his clothes. Draft had been as mortified as they were, for similar yet different reasons. To them, he'd gone his whole life walking around unarmored. To him, actual armor was something you donned for battle then took off, like a knight or a soldier, different from clothes in that you didn't just walk around in it in your free time.

Aware of his audience, Draft reluctantly did as was asked. " _Happy_?" He hissed when he was done. "S-Stop looking at me you **pedophiles**."

Twin Twist officially lost it, causing several people to look up at the howling laughter (Draft scowled; there was nothing funny about this humiliation). Eventually Twin Twist managed to reel it in, though he kept giggling every now and then throughout Springer's explanations.

"-can change the temperature up to 60 degrees difference with this." Springer was instructing. "Right side increases it, left side decreases. This panel over here controls the ratio of solvent to water that comes out. Any questions?"

"Can you t-two **fuck** off?" Draft snarled, _so_ embarrassed.

"Watch your language youngling." Springer snapped, not about to be threatened by some neglected sparking.

Draft scowled, but he wasn't about to start throwing punches like he wanted in here. The two of them outnumbered him and they'd make a scene. When Springer and Twin Twist were satisfied he was actually washing off they left him too it, the latter still giggling. Draft's scowl stayed firmly on his face while he showered. Even though a part of him was secretly relieved to be getting clean, he was too embarrassed to admit it.

He _hated_ this place.

Eventually he finished his "maintenance", or whatever the hell Twin Twist like to call it. He kept scowling the whole time, expression the only foul thing on his now squeaky clean frame. Guess he'd head back to his room now that he'd been sufficiently humiliated. Fireflight, Skydive, Slingshot, and Air Raid had disappeared to go do something with Silverbolt the second they got done drying each other off, leaving Draft to walk alone with his thoughts.

Impress him? _Impress him_? How on Ear-...Cybertron was he supposed to impress Silverbolt tomorrow? He was only good at flying and fighting because of his time on Earth; he'd naturally been drawn to Judo and even some gymnastics (which was apparently a form of torture among his kind, go figure), and flying here was a breeze compared to the weather he'd traversed at home. Bet none of _them_ ever flew in a hurricane.

What was he going to do?

He failed to notice the yellow ghost haunting him, unaware that the washracks had more than one entrance and that he should have been on guard.

He never stood a chance.

Sunstreaker pounced, snarling "Not so funny _now_ , is it?!" as he jabbed something sharp into his neck, and the world faded to black.

* * *

 **I'm back and happy New Years! So yeah, I decided chapter four could use some changes. And** _ **Anodythe(**_ **\- you thought.**

 **Hope ya'll enjoy!**


	5. Chapter 5

Draft stayed confused as his processor took its sweet time rebooting itself. What the-

-for the love of _God_ was waking up in the same place he fell asleep too much to ask for? And where was Sunstreaker? And why was he...in the dark. Draft tried to stand and grunted when his head banged against something he couldn't see.

The heck?

Further moving about (or the attempt to) revealed more obstructions; he was in a box or a closet of some kind, and the best he could do was ninja crouch. That explained the dark. What was going on? He would soon find out.

Hours passed. Nothing, that's what was going on. And what continued to go on for what felt like eternity. The flyer couldn't call for help because neither his comm nor his vocalizer worked; Sunstreaker must have messed with them for exactly that reason.

Asshole.

Five _more_ hours later he was _really_ ready to be let out now. Draft heard it when someone entered whatever place adjoined the closet/box/coffin he was in, but unable to call for help, they left. His wings were starting to tremble as a feeling of dread he'd never felt before squirmed restlessly in his spark. Any longer, and he felt like he was going to suffocate. He couldn't even scream.

Audios straining in the dark, and he thought he heard someone coming again. Thank Goodness - he was ready to kiss whoever let him the fuck out of here. _Please_ free him. _Please_ free him. Otherwise he might just deactivate.

But the footsteps didn't let him out. No doubt they didn't even know he was there. They faded away, and Draft quietly despaired.

 **...**

"I'm telling you, the defense grid could use additional reinforcements in that sector. That was how Ravage got through last time."

" 'Red, we don't know _where-_ "

"You don't believe me, do you?" Red Alert sighed, palming open the door to their quarters. Inferno shuffled in after him, glad to finally be off duty and that he'd somehow convinced his Sparkmate to come with him. Red Alert needed a break.

"I believe," Inferno purred, swiping the datapad from his hands. "I might need more _convincing_."

"Give me that, it has valuable data on it." Red Alert said, reaching for it except failing because he was short. Inferno rolled his optics. The datapad wasn't the only thing that went over his stubborn partner's head.

"We agreed no working for the next two joors _at_ _least_ ; Ironhide and Blitz are more than capable of holding down the fort."

Literally.

"Fine, fine, I'll put it up." Red Alert grumbled. He was allowed to take it back and turned, quickly typing in the access code to the hidden safe he'd secretly installed, despite their room already being harder to break into than Ratchet's stash of highgrade.

" _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH_! IT'S A DECEPTICON! _INFERNO_!" Red Alert shrieked like a spazzing pterodactyl. "UNHAND ME YOU FIEND!"

Draft hugged his unknown rescuer, in his claustrophobia-induced-panic thinking ' _thankyouthankyouthankyou-'_

He didn't register the words being shouted. He also didn't notice the sound of a weapon charging, but he definitely felt it when Inferno tased him with it.

* * *

Draft groaned when he woke up. Did he even _want_ to open his eyes this time? Knowing his luck, he was probably lying in a ditch somewhere or still stuck in that fucking closet. Apparently he had the power to teleport while unconscious. Why couldn't he wake up and be home?

"Draft? Can you hear me?"

Wait a sec, he recognized that voice - there was no way First Aid would fit in the closet too. Draft opened his optics.

Yup, he was free. A ceiling hovered refreshingly far above him, along with First Aid's worried face. Strange how he could tell, seeing as the medic wore both a facemask and a visor. He gasped.

He could see every wire of First Aid's neck cables clearly, with much more detail than usual, and glyphs in Standard danced across his vision when he tried to focus on them.

"What- **...what did you** _ **do**_ **to me?!"** Draft cried, reverting to English. His eyes, what was wrong with his eyes? Why did everything look so weird? So _clear_? He scrambled away from the medic, in the process realizing his hands were in high-tech handcuffs of some kind. The fuck? " **What's going on?! Why am I-my eyes-my hands are-where are-"**

"Calm down." First Aid said, reaching out to steady him. Draft yelped and kicked him in the face, then froze when he realized what he'd done.

" **First Aid, I am** _ **so**_ **sorry, I don't know why I did that - is your visor okay? Shit it's crack-"**

"It's okay, easy, I have spares." First Aid soothed. "How are you feeling? You said something about your um, your optics? How's your vocalizer?"

Obviously working, but a good medic always got feedback. The sparkling in front of him blinked at the calm tone.

" **There's something wrong with my vision. Everything's super sensitive and clear and words keep, just keep** _ **happening**_ **when I try to focus. There's little pictures and graphs that keep popping up."** He seemed to hesitate, then fearfully whispered, " **First Aid, am I going** _ **crazy**_ **?"**

"Draft, you're a lot of things, but you're not crazy." First Aid chuckled. "You must mean your HUD. I take it it's installed correctly?"

" **Installed….?"** Draft repeated, obviously lost. The random stuff kept dancing across his sight.

"I had to sync with you in order to fix your comm, and I noticed your HUD program was likewise disabled so I re-installed it." First Aid clarified.

" **You-,"** Draft began, tone no longer fearful but...angry? He jumped to his feet and almost face planted, but First Aid was quick to grab him.

" **You installed a** _ **program**_ **in my** _ **head**_ **?! Why would you** _ **do**_ **that? What is** _ **wrong**_ **with you people?!"** He wailed.

"What? What's wrong?" First Aid asked, and Draft angrily shrugged him off only to stagger back to a sit, too unbalanced with all the new information his HUD was supplying at once.

" **What's wrong? What's** _ **wrong**_ **?"** Draft screamed. " **What's** _ **wrong**_ **is that I've been humiliated, tased, locked in a freaking closet, and now I'm God knows where in handcuffs! Where even** _ **am**_ **I?!"**

First Aid was glad he'd activated the cell's soundproof forcefield beforehand. "You're in the brig," he said calmly.

" **What?!** _ **Why**_ **!"**

"Um, for attacking Red Alert? You really don't remember?"

" **I didn't...** _ **oh**_ **. It was a prank."** Draft said, realizing the true nature of Sunstreaker's actions.

"Well it wasn't a very funny prank. Inferno says you nearly gave him a spark attack, and of course they didn't recognize you and almost shot you by mistake." First Aid scolded.

" **What? No you idiot, it was a prank on** _**me**_ **. I was locked in there for hours. I thought he was letting me out."**

"You were locked in there for _how_ long?" The medic gasped. No wonder Draft lashed out; flyers, especially young flyers, had no business being shut in enclosed spaces. A feeling of dread settled over him. Had one of the Wreckers…."Who put you in there? Was it the same person who stabbed you?"

" **It's fine, we're even now,"** Draft evaded the question. He still spoke in English, too stressed out to tackle Standard. " **Besides, you apparently decided to take a stroll through my head, don't you already know?"**

"I did _no_ such thing." First Aid retorted, armor feathering out in anger. He was a medic. To even suggest that-"I merely fixed your comm and HUD."

Draft scowled. " **You keep saying that. What's a hell is a "** _ **HUD**_ " **and what gives you the right to install it without asking?"**

First Aid stared. Draft didn't know what a HUD was? Wait. "Do you mean you've never had a HUD before?"

Who would handicap themselves like that? That was like having a altmode with no wheels, a datapad without storage. _Everyone_ had a HUD. It was an accepted facet of Cybertronian life. How else did you tell time at the mere thought of it, or know your fuel levels to the exact decimal? Injuries, battle programs, etc.

" **I don't know what you're talking about. Can you turn it off?** _ **Please?"**_

First Aid decided to put his foot down. "No. Draft, everyone has a HUD. Did the others know you didn't have one? Did _Ultra Magnus_? Because they should have given you one a long time ago. Not having it is practically a handicap around here; I can't believe your creators never installed one."

" **Well, my creators** _ **were**_ **only human."** Draft sighed.

"You're creators were most certainly not human."

" _ **Adopted**_ **creators,"** Draft corrected, exasperated. " **I never met my Cybertronian ones. And who are you calling handicapped?"**

"That's not what I meant." First Aid said. He didn't think Draft was handicapped. Not at all. He was just...different. Draft's circumstances had never happened entire history of Cybertron before. "I just assumed you were familiar with it."

" **Yeah, well, no one ever asks."**

"You can ask me, since obviously you're guardians are doing a terrible job."

First Aid commed Jolt to take his shift, then spent the rest of the joor walking the youngling through the use of his new HUD. However much Draft was displeased at First Aid for installing it, the medic wasn't about to uninstall it, and he was at least willing to figure it out together. First Aid actually found himself enjoying the kid's curiosity after Draft made him promise to never to do that again. It was refreshing. And ultimately, it decided that serving the rest of the orn for "pranking" the Security Director was good enough, since the stubborn sparkling refused to name names.

Whatever. Draft wasn't no snitch.

"You sort of do the crime, you sort of serve the time." First Aid sighed, eventually leaving him to it. He felt bad that Draft had to stew in the brig for something that wasn't really his fault. Oh well; it wasn't worth blowing his cover with all the paperwork needed to spring him early, and at least he'd corrected such a colossal oversight as not having a HUD.

There was no way that could go wrong.

* * *

 **This is a short one, sorry.**


	6. Chapter 6

"Okay, you're free to go." Trailbreaker said, turning off the force field to Draft's cell.

Draft stepped out hesitantly, expecting paperwork or a taser-happy Red Alert or something, but the current brig guard just waved him forward. Huh. On Earth he would have gone through a whole slew of forms and signatures for getting arrested; either things were more lax in the Autobot army, or there was more to this behind the scenes.

At least First Aid had (unintentionally) given him a way to pass the time other than thinking about that cramped closet. He'd spent the last five hours of punishment messing with his new HUD-thingy. It was like having an Android or Iphone interface in your mind: very distracting. How did normal mechs get anything done?

Draft froze at the sight of a familiar blue one waiting for him.

"Come with me." Ultra Magnus growled, turning heel. Draft swallowed his fear and went with him as was expected. What else could he do? He couldn't keep avoiding tall blue and murderous forever; they unfortunately shared quarters.

Draft trailed after him soberly, optics focused to a specific point on the mech's back. Either he was going to die, or he was going to wish he did. He'd only been here a whole month and he'd already spent a night in the robo-slammer; that was never good. Ultra Magnus likewise didn't say a word until they got to his quarters. He palmed open the door, and with much reluctance, Draft followed him inside. When the door closed behind them, Ultra Magnus turned around.

Whatever Draft was expecting, it wasn't the backhanded slap that came out of nowhere.

He yelped, getting knocked nearly across the room by the force of it, but even then he knew that was merely been a love tap compared to what the mech do. The dude had like, a ton on him.

"Have I got your attention _now_? _Get up_."

"Yes Sir." Draft said quietly, getting to his feet. He tried not to wince at how much the left side of his face stung right now. He wanted to yell too, scream that none of this shit was _his_ fault, especially since he never asked to be an Autobot in the first place, but he could pick his battles and already knew this was a losing one no matter what he said.

"I haven't seen you in almost two orns, you refuse to answer my comms, disobey curfew, and I find you in the _brig_? Unacceptable."

"Yes, Sir."

" _I'm not finished_! There are rules here. You're not on _Dirt_ anymore, you're a part of this army and I expect you to act like it."

"But-," Draft began.

"NO buts! We had a _deal_!" His guardian yelled. "If you cannot be trusted to hold up your end of it, _why_ should I hold up mine?"

Wait, did he mean he was thinking about sticking him in a sparkling frame like they'd threatened? _No_! "Please, it was a m-mistake, I'm _sorry_." Draft apologized.

Whether he meant it or not was up to Ultra Magnus, but Draft would do anything to avoid being removed from his frame. It was the only thing he had left from Earth.

" _I_ will be the judge of that." Ultra Magnus growled. "Starting today you will remain in your room, where I can know you're not getting into trouble, unless I otherwise tell you or you're with the aerialbots. You will have an escort to and from your duties."

"But-but what about energon?!" Draft gasped. This was _so_ stupid! "I have t-to...r-refuel!"

"It will be brought to you."

"For how **lo** - _long_?!" Draft wailed, struggling not to break into English lest his guardian slap him again.

" _For as long as it takes_!"

Ultra Magnus roared, optics narrowed. He dared the errant sparkling to argue again and see what happened. He'd had enough of Draft's " **bullshit** ", as the Dirtlings called it. This stupidity ended and it ended now, even if he had to assign Wreckers to babysit the idiot for a vorn. How could Draft ever learn to function in society if he was constantly acting out? This was for his own good.

"Get out of my sight."

Draft obeyed, going to his room swiftly. Ultra Magnus stayed where he was for a minute, wondering briefly if he'd been too harsh, but the notion was dismissed. He didn't take joy in doling out punishments to anyone, from the army's most undisciplined soldiers (annoying glitch Sideswipe may be) to its now sparklings, but where there were rules there were consequences and Draft had to learn that.

 **...**

Draft huddled on his berth, long wings twitching in fury as he resolutely stared at his desk (a small table that was the only other furniture in the room). This was bullshit! As far as he was concerned, he'd done nothing wrong. Ultra Magnus was being so unfair; he'd never even got to explain himself, though maybe now was not the best time to admit he'd apparently been drunk out of his mind the other day.

He rubbed his face; Ultra Magnus never hit him before. Well, at least not when he didn't swing first. Back when he'd first been captured, he'd attack any of the Wreckers that came near him trying to escape. Springer had put a stop to that by beating the ever loving crap out of him when he got a lucky kick to the mech's interface panel. Good times.

His HUD informed him that the damage was merely cosmetic and that his self-repair systems would fix it within the joor. Draft mentally deleted the message, annoyed. He spent the rest of the day in that same almost meditative state of annoyance, laying down and mentally fiddling with his HUD when someone pinged him. Draft pinged back, letting Springer know he could enter. The Wrecker stood somewhat awkwardly in the doorway.

"Hey, kid. Silverbolt has you guys scheduled for training in a few breems." He said kind of awkwardly.

" **I know."** Draft sighed.

This day just never ends. Draft hopped off the berth, nodding for Springer to lead the way. He was so screwed. He felt like a little kid being lead to school for a test he didn't study for; did Silverbolt still expect to be impressed?

Silverbolt had them meeting in the Underground Simulation Area this time, a space the size of a city block and designed to look like one, if you liked your cities ravaged by war. Springer smirked at Draft, who was looking around in amazement. Kid was sure easy to impress. The, center, clear of debris, was the rendezvous.

Fireflight, Skydive, Air Raid, and Slingshot were all standing in a tight huddle when they picked their way down there, and Jetfire was arguing good naturedly in the corner with a humongous flyer Draft didn't recognize. Meanwhile Powerglide and Echo's trine were doing something weird with a big metal ball; they were throwing it as hard as they could at each other; it looked like knocking someone over was the goal. Another mech, who until then was only watching the game, jogged up to them.

"Hey Springer, Draft." He said. The long blades draped over his back indicated he was a helicopter alt mode like Springer, and said Wrecker tilted his helm.

"Good orn Blades. Have you two met?"

"Sort of; you know my brothers, Hot Spot and Streetwise." Blades said, looking at Draft. "So I sort of know you. And now you sort of know me."

"Oh." Was all Draft said, wondering what made Cybertronians 'brothers'. Like, brothers in arms? It made no sense.

"I thought you were under Hot Spot's command." Springer said. While both he and Blades were flyers, he was a Wrecker, and of course gestalt teams were always an exception, so neither answered to Silverbolt. Blades shrugged.

"I am, but Gamma's still in the medbay and Silverbolt wanted to make the teams more even."

Springer nodded. "Ah." To Draft he said, "I'll see you later," before leaving. He passed Silverbolt on his way out.

Silverbolt entered the room and upon seeing that everyone was not only present but _on time_ (Primus really did work miracles), announced, "Powerglide, Echo, play lob on your own time; go stand over there with Delta, Blades, Jetfire and Slingshot."

He paused and addressed the white flyer Jetfire had been talking to earlier. "Skyfire, nice to see you with us."

'Skyfire' dipped his big helm respectfully, and Draft caught his optic when he looked away. Silverbolt continued, "You're with Fireflight, Air Raid, Skydive, and Draft on this side. Your objective is to find and destroy the enemy's transponder. Go hide them."

When the teams were out of sight of each other for six breems, Silverbolt commed /Go!/ and the madness began. Draft decided it was like capture the flag; except replace the flag with a transponder thingy and the people with a bunch of trigger happy robots.

At the "Go" Slingshot, Echo and Delta immediately took to the air, as flying was allowed on these simulated battlefields and they were all flyers.

On Draft's team Skydive, Air Raid, and Fireflight transformed and blasted off to meet them, engaging the three head on in a paint slinging dogfight. Draft remained on the ground, unsure what to do. He was arguably the smallest flyer there and finding cover was easy. Draft looked around, the trash and bullet marred buildings crystal clear in his new HUD-infused vision. Maybe…

Finding cover in the form of a torn up wall, Draft took potshots at enemy fliers from the ground. Slingshot apparently didn't like that, and broke formation to strafe him. Draft swore and dived out of the way. But as the aerialbot passed, he saw that his shots had fired true. Man, using you HUD made aiming so easy! He felt like this was cheating.

No wonder he'd sucked.

"Gotcha!" Powerglide appeared from nowhere, grabbing Draft. "Why are you fighting down here like a grounder?"

Draft tossed him with a judo throw.

"Mech, do you pack a punch." Powerglide winced, scraping himself back up. Draft ignored the banter and just shot him paint blank; not sure why, but it felt _very_ satisfying.

"The frag was that for?!"

"We're on opposite teams, **dumbass**." Draft said.

Powerglide looked confused. "Something wrong with your vocalizer?"

Oops, he'd said that in English. Rather than stick around Draft transformed, blasting upward and out of that conversation before it could go anywhere important. He could go shoot someone else for a turn.

Draft had to steady himself; the difference was immediate. _This_ was flying with a HUD? Where had this program _been_ all his life? Information streamed into his processor from the velocity of air against his wings to how many degrees his frame was turned relative to the ground. It felt _good_.

Thank you First Aid.

Giddy at how fun flying with a HUD was, Draft found a new desire to fight. He flew into the middle of the aerial battle between Skydive and Echo, pelting the trine leader's face with paint even as his teammate barked "watch it!" An enraged Echo disengaged to give chase, Skydive following after the two of them, and Draft whooped, spinning ludicrously as he avoided purple paint and flew into their territory, more interested in finding his own limits than their transponder-thing. Suddenly he had two more on him.

/What are you doing you glitch?!/ Air Raid yelled over the comm.

/B-Being distracting! Someone go find their flag!/

/Their _what_?/

/Uh, tr-transponder./ Draft hastily corrected, dancing with gravity as he wove in and out of the fake ruins with a speed that suggested a crash wouldn't be pretty. Forget avoiding the paint shot at him, that was just a bonus. He was having fun. He barely managed to avoid Blades though, who was lurking on the ground. Draft did a loop, this time prepared for it, and when the idiot tried it again he pegged him in the back.

Echo was still on his tail. Damnit. And now so was Slingshot again.

/You're crazy./

That _sounded_ like Slingshot, who wasn't even on his side. Yeah, he probably looked like a kamikaze to his own teammates, but he doubted any of them used to practice flying through the forests. Not getting impaled or slamming into anything was like, Draft's specialty, and with a HUD it was even more easy. Hopefullyhis team was doing something productive with this distraction.

As if reading his thoughts someone commed, /I got it! _Pit_ yeah! Eat that you-/

/Everyone to the center./ Silverbolt cut Air Raid off.

Draft giggled, wondering what Air Raid would have said, and he stopped flying backwards and upside down like a moron to follow Echo back to the center of the room. A grinning Air Raid was triumphantly holding the crushed remains of the other team's transponder in his clawed servo. Everyone was covered in paint, especially Skyfire; then again, he was a big target. He'd stayed behind to guard their flag-er, transponder, and he smiled at Draft when he caught him looking. Draft looked away sheepishly.

Silverbolt gave the usual pep talk before telling them to beat it, save Draft (again). Nervously, Draft watched the rest of the group make their merry paint covered way out of the room. He was about to get complimented, right? Surely.

But Silverbolt looked suspicious as he stood before him, lip-plates pulled into a frown. Finally he settled for demanding: "Draft, are you on _enhancers_?"

Draft...wasn't entirely sure what that meant. He didn't think so. "No?"

"Then what was _that_?!"

Draft blinked. "I thought you w-wanted to be impressed, S-Sir."

" _Impressed_?" Silverbolt repeated, a stern look on his face. "The only thing that will impress me is how fast you'll be court martialed if I _ever_ find out you've been using enhancers, do I make myself clear?"

What? What did _he_ do? He didn't even know what enhancers were!

"I promise, Sir, I d-don't use...enhancers." Draft stumbled over the new word, honest. Silverbolt looked unconvinced.

"See to it you don't. You are dismissed."

Draft turned and exited, for the life of him unable to figure out what everyone in this place had against him. He'd done loads better today than yesterday, what was the problem? Did Silverbolt not see how good he was?

Springer was waiting for him in the corridor.

"What was that about? Please tell me you didn't get in trouble _again_ , Ultra Magnus...wants to see you later. He sent me to yell you." Springer stiffened, changing tune as Silverbolt came out behind Draft. He nodded to the aerial commander before leaving, as it might look weird to keep following Draft. People might think he was the kid's babysitter or something; didn't want them getting the right idea. Primus he hoped Silverbolt hadn't heard all of that.

Draft kept walking, feeling his commanders' eyes on him. Just act natural. At least Silverbolt didn't follow him the whole way there. When Draft entered the washracks, he was immediately assaulted by a cleaning rag. It made contact with his face with a wet _FWAP_.

"Hey!"

"Hey yourself!" Fireflight squawked. "You never said you could fly like _that_!"

"Like what?" Draft said, for his sanity refusing to look at anyone below the waist. Just, no. He moved near Fireflight and started undoing the locks on his own armor, though, or else he'd look weird.

"Like someone lit your tailpipe on fire. I knew you were crazy."

A corner of Draft's mouth lifted at the compliment, even if a part of him wished Fireflight would phrase it better.

"Crazy in a good way? 'Cause Silverbolt seems to think I'm on enhancers. What? I'm _not_." He insisted.

He looked around, but Echo and Gamma were minding their own business further down, and Skydive was helping Air Raid hold Slingshot down in the pool at the far end. Skyfire and Jetfire were also in the pool, but far enough away from their splash zone to not be annoyed. Deciding he could maybe trust Fireflight on this one, Draft asked,

"Um...by the way, what are they?"

Fireflight stopped scrubbing his arm like it was guilty of murder. "What?"

"Enhancers. W-What are they?"

That made the aerialbot stare. Who didn't know that? " _You_ know. They make you more focused, or at least some do. But it can mess with your processor and they're really addicting, which is why they're illegal."

Oh, that actually made sense. Wait. Silverbolt thought he was on drugs?

Before he could form an opinion on that, arms suddenly encircled him, lifting him off his feet. "What the **hell**?" Draft yelped, letting his English slip. "W-What are you doing Air R-Raid?! Slingshot?! Put me d-down!"

"Come on guys!" Fireflight whined. Primus, sometimes he thought his brothers were sparklings.

Draft struggled some more as they carried him like movers with a couch towards the pool. Uh, they were like, naked. Or the Cybertronian version. This was so gay.

"C-Can you s-swim as good as you f-fly?" Air Raid laughed; with a whoop they tossed Draft into the pool.

Fireflight came up behind Slingshot and pushed him in. "You guys!"

" _What_?" Slingshot replied when he came back up. The foamy, cleanser filled water only came up to the middle of his chest; the pool was fairly deep to accommodate those with bigger frames.

"That was mean!"

"No it wasn't." Air Raid said, still standing next to Fireflight. He tackled his little brother into the water. When they resurfaced he sniggered, " _That_ was mean."

Slingshot held up a hand. "Hey, guys?"

His tone made Fireflight and Air Raid stop trying to drown each other (which for robots was impossible anyway). "What?"

"Where's Draft?"

"What the-he didn't come back up?!"

"Do either of _you_ glitches see him?"

Air Raid spun around in the water, making it go swish. "Frag!"

From their peaceful end of the pool, Jetfire and Skyfire watched the three aerialbots search for Draft, trying to feel him with their peds and calling his name. Had he had a processor crash and sunk to the bottom? Just then Skyfire felt something brush his leg. A helm was peeking out of the water behind him.

" _Draft_?" He said. He hadn't gotten the chance to talk to new flyer, despite being on his team today (though he suspected that was because he had elected to stay behind and guard the transponder, large framed as he was. His shuttle mode just wasn't suited for dogfights like the others).

The helm nodded. "Shhhhh. Don't tell them I'm over here."

Jetfire chuckled, seeing who it was that was hiding behind his colleague's frame. "How did you get over here?"

"I swam."

"You swam?" Jetfire echoed. The newbie had said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Draft switched focus.

"Your des...ignation is Skyfire, r-right?"

"Yes." Skyfire rumbled.

"W-Why haven't I seen you be-before? Are you also new to…," Draft glanced back at the aerialbots' end, where they were still freaking out. " _That_?"

"No. I am under Silverbolt's command, but rarely am I present on the battlefield. I'm a scientist."

Draft looked between them. "Uh...I thought _he_ was the scientist."

"We both are." Jetfire clarified, understanding the smaller mech's confusion. "People confuse us all the time, though I can't imagine why."

"Hey! There he is! Draft you glitch, not funny!" The three looked up to see Air Raid pointing at them. "What are you even talking about over there? Let me guess, _organics_." The bomber mocked.

"Organics?" Draft squeaked, energon running cold. Oh no. Did they know?

But Skyfire explained, "I specialized in xenobiology before the war, and even have a few samples in the lab if you'd care to see."

"They _are_ a fascinating subject." Jetfire added almost wistfully. "Though most mechs beg to differ."

Oh. "Y-Yeah…," Draft murmured, sinking lower in the water. If only they knew.

* * *

 **Third new chapter in a row, bam!**


	7. Chapter 7

Draft sighed, he was hanging out in his room two days later. If, no, _when_ he got back to Earth, he was never going to do something worthy of being arrested. Ever.

Because house arrest sucked.

He was playing Tetris on his HUD, absently musing on how to get Sunstreaker back. No way was that yellow freak getting away with his prank; Draft's anger, pride, and mischievous side all demanded the favor be returned. It had been cruel. But what to do and how to avoid getting murdered by him or Ultra Magnus when either of them found out eluded him.

/Draft, are you alright?/

First Aid? Draft sat up. /...Y-Yeah? Why, should I not be?/

/Oh, I'm just checking, since you haven't been hurt for a whole orn. That must be a personal record, right?/

/Haha, very funny./ Draft said. /Does getting slapped count?/

/What? When?/

/Yesterday. Ultra Magnus bailed me out, but he wasn't happy about it./

/He _hit_ you?/ First Aid sounded decidedly less okay with that than Draft was. Extremely so. Trying to placate him, Draft urged,

/It's fine, barely left a dent. He was just being a **mother** **hen**./

/A femme what?/

Draft frowned. /A _what_ what?/

/What?/

/ _What_?/

/What./

/Never mind, it's an expression. **Man** you guys take everything literally./

/You need to tell me when any of them hit you, okay? Because that's not okay./

/Look it's fine, I'm fine, he's fine, we're _all_ fine./ Draft groaned. /Just drop it./

/Drop what?/

/ _ **Dude**_./

/Oh. ...How was training?/

The Earth mech snorted. Way to segway into that one First Aid. What was he, his mom? Draft reopened his mental game of Tetris as he talked. /Good. Why are _you_ so interested?/

/Just being nice./ First Aid said.

/ _Nice_? I thought that was a foreign concept around here./

/You're the only foreign concept around here. Sure you don't want to talk about it?/

/Smooth. And I didn't get tazed, if that's what you're asking. Hey First Aid?/

/Yeah?/

/What are 'enhancers'?/ Draft asked, figuring the medic would know.

There was a pause. Then, / What have those Wreckers been putting in your head?/

Draft snickered. /Their fists. And a crow bar, once. When they first kidnapped me./

/Nobody kidnapped you./

/I'm being held against my will, what do _you_ call that?/

/You're not being held against your will./

Pausing his tetris, the flyer stated, /If I leave, that makes me a deserter. Plus I have nowhere to go; interstellar travel isn't exactly covered in ninth grade./ This was true; for all intents and purposes, he was practically stranded.

/What do you hate about this place so much?/ First Aid said, sounding sympathetic.

/Are we being rhetorical, or should I start listing?/

First Aid scoffed. /It can't be that bad./

/Everyone here is crazy./ Draft sighed dramatically. Listing it was.

/You're exaggerating./

/I got locked in the brig./

/Not for ong./

/Silverbolt thinks my aim sucks./

/ _Does_ it?/

/Ultra Magnus even grounded me./

/HE _WHAT_?!/ First Aid suddenly exploded, losing whatever game they'd been playing. /Stay right there I'm coming. Are you okay? When did this happen?! Do you need any pain chips?!/

First Aid sounded a level of serious Draft didn't think even Ultra Magnus possessed, and he quickly backtracked. /What, no, _stop_ , what are you talking about? I'm fine, don't come here. What's wrong?/

/You said he grounded you - are your wings still attached? Functional?/

/Attached? You think he...oh no no no, you see, getting "grounded" for me means getting ordered to stay in my room. Not, uh, not _that_. I'm fine./

/Don't scare me like that./ First Aid said, clearly relieved.

/Don't scare _me_ like that./ Draft shot back.

He was glad First Aid called, though he'd never admit it; it felt _good_ to talk to someone, even if the medic only did it because he knew he was a sparkling. He went back to playing Tetris.

* * *

Jetfire wasn't annoyed. Ever since they'd left for patrol, Draft had stayed close, practically flying underneath him - in complete contrast to the stellar performance he put on in their last training session. Again, Jetfire wasn't annoyed. But obviously the guy could fly. Why was he so nervous?

/You okay?/

/F-Fine./ Draft said, though Jetfire noted he immediately put distance between them to prove it. The scientist remained unconvinced.

To their right, Air Raid and Slingshot flew lazy loops around each other. Draft caught himself watching and looked away, remembering he couldn't afford to be distracted. This had to be the farthest a patrol had ever taken him from base; a Decepticon could appear at any moment. Did _nobody_ care?

/Knock it off you two./ Silverbolt commed. Apparently one person did. /Jetfire, Draft, we're taking a break. That building with the balcony over there./

Draft kept on Jetfire's thrusters as they proceeded to the building, transforming next to him when they got there. Silverbolt, Slingshot, and Air Raid landed perfectly in synch. It was as if they could read each other's minds, Draft mused.

"No 'Cons so far, but we still have half a parsec to cover. Three breems, we move out."

There was a chorus of Yes Sirs. They sort of split up, though of course none of them actually strayed very far because that would just be stupid. The aerialbots chilled close to each other, checking up on weapons systems or fuel levels with their HUDs. For his part Draft moved further inside, looking around the room that adjoined the balcony with a wonder that belonged to the young.

What was this place? Why was it shaped the way it was? Who lived here? People like him, obviously. Though, on second thought, Draft supposed there wasn't anybody like him.

"Remind you of Polyhex?" Jetfire asked, joining him.

Draft silently nodded, deciding to let the mech think what he wanted; he wasn't sure his vocalizer worked right now. For some reason this stupid place had him all choked up. The whole 'I'm-a-soldier-now' thing hadn't bothered him as much when he was sitting in the rec room or safe on his berth, but now that he was out here the truth reared its ugly head.

He didn't want to die.

Was he willing to give is life to the Autobots? He didn't think so. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever.

"Let's go." Silverbolt called.

 **...**

"Hey, Draft?"

"Yeah?"

They were in the main hanger, having just got back. Thank goodness. Draft suddenly didn't mind the thought of spending so much time grounded in his room, if it meant not being out there.

"Are you busy later this cycle? Because, I mean, if you want to, I have some holo-vids from Polyhex, and I was thinking…I mean, if _you_ want to. Me and Skydive thought you might." Fireflight fumbled, deciding to just shut up. Dear Primus, that didn't sound at all like he'd thought it would. In the background, Silverbolt Slingshot and Air Raid looked up as one.

Draft was genuinely surprised. His teammates wanted to hang out with him? But then he remembered.

"Sorry, I, I already have p-plans." Draft apologized, wondering what a holovid was. He was still grounded - Damn you Ultra Magnus.

"Oh." Was all Fireflight said. "Maybe, some other time?"

"Yeah, sounds fun." Draft nodded. "Tell Skydive I wish I could make it."

Fireflight smiled again. "Okay."

When Impactor dropped him off at his quarters, Draft silently stalked past Ultra Magnus to his room. It wasn't that the huge mech was easy to miss; Draft just had nothing to say to him. Bad enough he was being punished unjustly, or that he'd almost accepted it; now it was actually affecting him.

There were datapads on his berth, more lessons fo sho. In a huff Draft sat down and considered chucking them across the room; he could be making friends with Fireflight and Skydive right now. Lord knows he could use some of those.

He picked a datapad up and glared at it, but the expression slowly softened as an idea came to him.

He didn't want to study - maybe he didn't have to.

First Aid had explained how to download HUD programs or create one of his own (such as Tetris), maybe he could download information the same way. Draft fiddled with the 'pad, connecting it to a dataport in his arm. Worth a shot. What was the worst that could happen? He booted it up.

 _~*FFZSHHT*~_

* * *

Chapter 7, hope you enjoy


	8. Chapter 8

"Hey kid, open up." Springer said, banging on the door with his free hand. But as he'd half expected, there was no reply.

Really? The silent game? And Draft complained _they_ didn't treat him like an adult. "Let me in."

"..."

"You want your energon or not? 'Cause I'll be happy to drink it pal."

Silence.

Primus, what did they do to deserve this guy? Springer turned, intending to simply leave the moron to stew without supper, but he stopped himself. Draft hadn't gotten in any trouble recently. Which meant...

/Draft, are you in there? Say something./

There was no answer. Okay, now he was getting a little concerned. "Ultra Magnus, what's the override on junior's door?" The Wrecker called.

There was a shuffling noise, and the door to Ultra Magnus's private berth room/second office slid into the wall. He marched up to Springer and pinged Draft, commanding in a no nonsense tone, "Draft. Open the door."

They waited a full five seconds, then Ultra Magnus's engine gave a funny little rev of annoyance as he punched in the access code. He'd always been able to open Draft's door; better for the sparkling to believe he couldn't. Draft was slumped over on his berth when the door opened, the smell of smoke permeating the air. The datapad jacked into his arm made it clear what had happened.

Ultra Magnus rushed to Draft's side while Springer provided the obligatory:

"OH, _FRAG_!"

It appeared Draft had fried his processor. Quickly Ultra Magnus gathered his charge in his arms while mindful of the sensitive wings, before taking off for the medbay at a sprint. Springer was right behind him.

"Draft?" Slingshot gaped, having stepped aside to let Ultra Magnus pass. Nobody answered him and he was left bewildered in their wake. The aerialbot stared after them.

What was _that_ about?

When they got there Ultra Magnus fell on the medbay like a ton of bricks, immediately asking the first person he saw, " _Where's_ _First Aid_?"

"Over there." A familiar voice said, and the CMO eyed the thing his favorite by the book sociopath - not Prowl, the other one - held in his arms. "What happened to _him_?"

"Fried his processor trying to download the entire Autobot code instead of reading it. New recruits, what are you gonna do?" Springer laughed, manuevering between them (because once you were Ratchet's patient, your ass was his. Plus if he fixed Draft's processor he'd figure everything out and wouldn't _that_ would be awkward.)

Ratchet smirked up at Magnus. "Must be a fan of yours."

"Anyway I know you're _really_ busy, First Aid can take it. Isn't that right? HEY! _FIRST AID_!" Springer said, shouting that last part.

"Stop yelling in my medbay!" Ratchet yelled.

"Yes?" First Aid poked his head around the corner. When he spotted Draft's limp body he dashed over. "What happened?!"

"First Aid, take care of it." Ratchet sighed dismissively, turning away (as Springer had hoped he would).

"He fried his processor." Ultra Magnus intoned.

"On that berth. Quick."

Ultra Magnus did as he said, and the protectobot scanned Draft for a port before grabbing his arm and inserting a cord that would sync their processors. He tried to shove the guilt away when he saw the damage done; nothing permanent looking, thank Primus, but still enough to incapacitate for a while.

It would be a slow recovery.

First Aid felt Hot Spot mentally nudge him and realized he was projecting his guilt, so he stopped, putting out the mental _do not disturb_ block he reserved for surgeries. He had a patient to focus on.

* * *

 **Sorry this one's super short, but I feel like it would be best to break it up here. I've been informed literally 90% of the plot is Draft getting knocked out and waking up somewhere else, but that'll change. Anyway, please let me know what you think, I love getting reviews/tips!**


	9. Chapter 9

Draft couldn't move when he woke up three days later. Everything hurt and nothing worked; maybe, when he was focusing all his willpower, he could twitch his fingers slightly. But he couldn't open his mouth to speak or online his optics to see, and that scared him. More than being locked in a closet or Ultra Magnus ever could.

Something touched him, patted his arm, and Draft was left wondering who or what that was for another indiscernible amount of time before he was touched again, this time someone holding his hand.

' _I'm awake, I'm awake!'_ Draft thought, struggling to do the finger thing. He knew when the owner of the hand holding his felt the movement; it squeezed once, as if in reassurance, but then was gone.

' _Come back!_ '

Draft was here, he was awake. Wherever here was. Why couldn't he see or hear or move? A few minutes later that person (or maybe it was someone else) was gently lifting his arm and removing the panel that he knew covered a dataport on it. He felt something snap onto it, then-

~ _Are you awake?~_

~ _Yes! Help! I can't move!~_

Draft mentally wailed. ~ _Do something!~_

~ _It's okay, calm down, you just need to calm down. Everything's going to be-_ ~

~ - _I can't move! I can't move I can't move I can't move I can't move I can't-~_

~ _Stop that_.~ First Aid ordered, in as stern a tone as Draft had ever heard him. Draft felt himself calming down almost against his will, the mental loop of _I can't_ s fading with his terror. Why was he so calm?

~ _I know you can't, it's okay.~_ First Aid soothed. _~You're fine. Stop it. Your relays are just confused._ ~

First Aid felt Draft's hesitance before the mechling thought, ~ _They're not the only ones_ ~, but with less of his usual sass behind it. First Aid squeezed his servo again.

~ _You fried your processor. Draft, I want you to be honest: did you do this on purpose?~_

He had to know. Because if Draft was still in the acceptance stage of being "kidnapped", there were more serious issues than a fried processor at stake. What was to stop him from trying again?

~ _No? At least...I don't think so. I mean, I remember syncing with a datapad. Did that do this? Are you in_ _my head?~_

~ _You were downloading information?~_ First Aid clarified, relieved. But there was also guilt; he should have told Draft torrenting data could hurt him. Everyone knew that.

Well, _now_ everyone knew it; thankfully without any lasting repercussions.

~ _Yes_. _First Aid, please, I can't move.~_

 _~I know and that's okay.~_ First Aid thought, wondering how many times Draft would repeat that. Probably a lot. ~ _Your neural network was fried pretty badly. It will take some time, but your self-repair should manage the rest. And to answer your question, yes, I'm technically in your processor. Or speaking through it. A direct sync is the only way to communicate with you until your sensory cortex comes back online.~_

~ _My...what? Sorry, I don't know what that is. How long until that happens?~_

~ _It's going to be a while, Draft.~_ First Aid thought.

~ _But how long is a while?! I can't see! I can't move! What am I supposed to do? I have another patrol tomorrow and Silverbolt thinks I'm on dru-~_

 _~No you don't. Brightspark, you've been out for three orns. I actually didn't expect you to wake up so early.~_

 _~Three...three days?!~_ Draft mentally stumbled over the sum. No way. ~ _Are you sure? That can't be right. First Aid, how much longer will I be stuck like this? Crap, Did someone take my shifts?~_

~ _Yes yes, I'm sure they got somebody to fill it. We_ are _an army, you know. Look, I know this situation must "suck it", as the humans say but-~_

 _~oh my god it's just "suck".~_

Draft hastily interrupted.

 _~aaaaanyway I'm sorry this had to happen. Look, I'll come back soon, but I have to go. Okay?~_

A pause.

 _~...Okay_.~

The way he thought it, Draft definitely wasn't okay with that. Back in the real world First Aid squeezed the hand he was holding again before disconnecting, to the casual observer having remained silent and still by the comatose mech's side. He'd best get back to work; Ratchet was probably wondering where he was right now. He didn't want to draw the CMO's attention to the moron who fried himself downloading the rules.

First Aid decided to keep the fact that said moron was awake to himself. At least for now. Draft wasn't scheduled to be awake for another orn anyway, and Ratchet wasn't very forgiving of dumb self-injuries. He wished Springer had come up with a better excuse.

The face masked-medic was brought out of his thoughts by something hugging his trod. Surprised, he looked down, and resisted the urge to _awww_ at what he found.

"Hello Bluestreak." He greeted warmly. "I see you're feeling better. What are doing back here?" Plus, where was Prowl?

As usual, the miniature Praxian said nothing. He didn't even acknowledge the inquiry, instead burying his face further into First Aid's trod. Two hurried femmes turned the corner and approached just as the medic was kneeling down to pry him off.

"You found First Aid! Yay!" The red one cheered brightly, picking him up. To First Aid her purple companion apologized, "Sorry about that, you know how he likes to wander off. Did he bother anything?"

"No no, it's perfectly alright. I was just getting some supplies." First Aid lied, walking with them back into the medbay proper. Pharma was gone, presumably still in that surgery on Sureshot, but he saw Fix-It attending to a mech sans an arm here, Triage scanning a mech there. A green femme occupied another berth, surrounded by some of Elita's squad and talking. One of the rescued prisoners, if First Aid wasn't mistaken.

"Hi First Aid." Moonracer greeted when their trio joined them. First Aid dipped his helm.

"Good orn."

"Oh, Firestar, you found him." Moonracer observed, reaching out and stroking one of the grey sparkling's winglets. "Did he get far this time?"

"Nah, First Aid stopped him."

"More like he stopped me." First Aid chuckled, but he gave Bluestreak a worried look.

The sparkling hadn't spoken once since Prowl found him in the rubble of Praxus. How he'd survived was both a miracle and a mystery; they might never know. Not if he didn't snap out of it. But so far even Rung hadn't been able to make him talk.

"Where did the other one go?" First Aid asked. He could have sworn the other sparkling was running around in here when he'd gone to check on Draft; that kid was going to drive Ratchet up a wall if Wheeljack didn't do it first.

"He went with Springer and Arcee to visit the rec room, kind of get introduced to the base. He can't stay hidden in here forever." Moonracer said.

"Haha, yeah…." First Aid agreed. Wasn't that the truth. How on Cybertron were the Wreckers getting away with this?

 **...**

~ _You still there?~_

 _~Thank God you're back! It's been a whole day, where were you? I'm so boooored! Is Ultra Magnus mad at me?~_

 _~Why would he be angry with you?~_ First Aid asked, though he was a little hung up at the 'thank-god' phrase. That was the second time Draft had referenced a/the deity in their conversations. Was it just an Earth phrase, or did he actually….-

~ _I dunno, I really messed up. He gets mad when I do that~_

~ _I'll let him know you didn't realize downloading that much data could hurt you.~_ First Aid reassured him. Like with Ratchet, he hadn't told Ultra Magnus about Draft waking up yet. Patient confidentiality and all. Yeah, he'd go with that. Plus he had been busy.

~ _Thank you. Hey, how can people be brothers?~_

Draft asked, switching topics randomly.

 _~What?~_ Where had _that_ come from?

~ _Brothers. How can a Cybertronian be related to another person like humans are?~_

~ _We can't be.~_ First Aid deadpanned. Draft's thoughts were naturally in English (another reason to keep Ratchet the frag away from him), and the English translation program in First Aid's HUD allowed him to understand what he meant. Sort of. They didn't have familial relations here the way biology shaped them on Earth. What was he on?

~ _Nothing, why does everyone think that?~_ Draft mentally groaned, catching that last part. ~ _Obviously not, like, blood brothers. But Sideswipe...someone said he and Sunstreaker were "brothers." What does that mean?~_

~ _Oh. That's different. Those two are split-spark Twins.~_ First Aid said.

~ _Woah, twins? Really? We have that on Earth too! That's weird, they don't look alike.~_

~ _Why would they?~_

~ _On Earth twins usually look the same because they have the same genetics, unless they're fraternal.~_

First Aid got the impression that such was common knowledge. Interesting. In the real world, he shifted on his crate-turned-stool, the dataport under his wrist linked to the one on Draft's arm via a cord.

~ _That's definitely not the case here_.~ The medic thought. ~ _Not exactly. A spark is unique. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker don't have to look alike. When did you meet them?~_

For the first time, Draft lied, probably not realizing First Aid could tell hooked in to his processor like this. ~ _In the rec room. They're...nice.~_

Yep. Definitely lying. ~ _Really?~_

~ _Yeah. We...really hit it off. How long until I can at least see?_ ~

~ _One track mind, huh.~_ First Aid thought, amused. ~ _You should be able to process visual data within the week.~_

~ _That's a long time.~_ The Earth mech thought glumly, but with more acceptance than when he'd learned he'd been unconscious for three days. First Aid patted the still mech's leg.

~ _Maybe to you. Humans use much shorter time increments. To us, me, it's really not. Now moving on the other servo…~_

~ _Don't tell me yet. One thing at a time_.~ Draft said, sounding defeated. Clearly he'd been thinking it over since waking up. ~ _I_ _might die from boredom before then, though.~_

~ _Draft that's physically impossible.~_

~ _Well is it mentally possible?~_

~ _No_.~

~ _Not even a little bit?~_

~ _Nope._ ~

Draft let his mind wander, bored out of it. First Aid was a lier; he was certain to offline at this rate. With each day he was only getting closer.

He remembered a story he'd read on Earth about an A.I. that lived forever, even after all the people were gone. What a good book. Was this how A.I.s felt? Bodiless but out there? That was assuming you could build one that felt anything at all. He wished First Aid would come back already. Their chats alleviated the boredom if only for a little while; he was the only mech Draft had met so far that knew about him and didn't give a shit.

Okay, no, scratch that, everyone who knew about him very much gave a shit; he was, like, freaking _Tarzan_ to them. But at least First Aid was nice about it.

He'd thought about Earth a lot since being captured, and he certainly thought about it now. The music, the culture, _his_ culture, how everything was different. This was a world of metal, and everything seemed cold. Dead. Maybe that was just from his Earthly perspective, but he missed the feeling of grass beneath his fee-err, _peds_.

Even the ground was alive on Earth.

Alive, Draft mused. He liked being alive. He wanted to stay that way too, which would probably be harder the longer he stayed here. It was a freaking war zone! Ultra Magnus claimed it was better for him to be among his own kind, but how could it be when those "kind" were at war? He wasn't even a citizen yet (hence his forged public profile), yet he'd basically been drafted. So not fair.

Something poked his shoulder a few minutes later, before fiddling with his dataport. Draft didn't even wait for the medic to greet him before thought blasting, ~ _FINALLY! I thought you'd never come back!~_

 _~Good to hear you didn't offline from boredom.~_ First Aid sent back. _~How are you holding up?~_

 _~Offlining of boredom. You said you'd come back in an hour.~_

 _~I said I'd come back in a joor, that's about five of your "hours".~_

 _~Oh yeah. Still feels slow as Christmas.~_

 _~Slow as what now?~_ First Aid thought, confused. That word didn't have a Standard translation.

~ _You know, Christmas? The holidays? Ring any silver bells?~_

~ _So like...a human tradition?~_ First Aid guessed, still confused.

~ _Yeah. People give each other gifts and say 'merry Christmas' a lot, it's basically just a season to celebrate winter and the upcoming new year with your family. It was getting close to that time when Ultra Magnus...when they took me.~_ Draft thought sadly. Then he asked, ~ _Hey, do Cybertronians have holidays?~_

First Aid winced at the sadness he felt through the uplink, even though he was specifically trying not to be too invasive in these conversations. That Draft had to be taken from everything he'd ever known was truly unfortunate, even if it was better for him in the long run. A Cybertronian wasn't meant to be raised by organics. Case in point - he didn't know anything about any of _their_ traditions.

~ _Of course we do.~_

~ _What about New Year's?~_

~ _We don't celebrate the passage of time like that. Well, sometimes people in Ibex do, but that place has always been weird.~_ First Aid thought.

~ _What...Where's Ibex?~_

~ _It use to be in the Southern Hemisphere. It was its own city state and had a lot of natural resources due to its proximity to the Uraya region.~_

Draft twitched his finger. ~ _First Aid, I literally have no idea what you just said.~_

~ _You really need some geography lessons.~_

~ _There's a lot of things I need right now, and geography's not exactly the most important.~_

Draft complained.

"First Aid, why is that patient not in the main 'bay?"

First Aid jumped, and his sudden worry had Draft demanding to know, ~ _What? What is it?~_ through the uplink. Ratchet eyed his apprentice as he set down the crate of tools he was holding, having come back here to store them. Hastily disconnecting from the comatose flyer's frame, First Aid stood up.

"Sir."

"That glitch awake yet? About time." Ratchet said, gesturing to the mech. "Move him back to the main area."

"Yes Sir."

Draft didn't know what was happening, but he felt someone pick him up and carry him a short distance before setting him down again and rearranging him on a new berth. Was that First Aid? What was happening? Why were they moving him? Where was he going?

Meanwhile, First Aid was (figuratively) sweating bullets. Not only was Draft essentially trapped in the medbay for now, but he had to avoid processor linking with Ratchet. If Ratchet saw that his thoughts were in an alien language….

Well, First Aid didn't know _what_ he'd think. But it wouldn't be good.

He finished hooking Draft up to the monitors and equipment of his new berth, also as far away from the currently occupied ones as possible. He'd just have to make sure the other medics stayed away from him. If that meant pulling extra shifts with his already overworked schedule, then so be it.

 **...**

End of the week:

~ -just checking some things. Y _our self-repair protocols have been working right on schedule, I can bring your sensory cortex back online now if you like.~_

~ _Wait...it's already been a week?~_ Draft thought incredulously. ~ _Yes! Yes! That would be...anything would be better than this. Thank you! I didn't think it'd be so soon!~_

In the real world First Aid's visor brightened in the equivalent of a smile. Draft's eagerness was kind of adorable, even if anyone in the same boat would also want their sensors back online as soon as possible. ~ _Well, you_ were _in stasis for half of it. Okay, we'll do these one at a time. Let me know when you can hear me.~_

Draft waited excitedly, straining to hear even the slightest sound. Eventually: "...-aft? Draft? Can you hear me? Draft? Let me know if you can hear me. Can-"

~ _Yes! I can hear you!~_

Draft thought excitedly. The background sound of the medbay - bots talking and shit beeping - was a welcome balm to the boring absence it replaced. He wanted to jump for joy, but settled for the finger twitch for now.

~ _Good, good. Bringing your optical feeds online, tell me how many fingers I'm holding up._ ~

Draft waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually he got impatient and grumbled, ~ _First Aid, did you do it yet?~_

~ _You still can't see?~_ First Aid sent back.

~ _No?~_

Draft felt First Aid's sudden stab of worry through the uplink, and thought, ~ _First Aid? What's wrong?~_

~ _Nothing, nothing.~_ He was quickly reassured. ~ _Here, it has to work now.~_

His vision suddenly filled with static, but instead of resolving itself, the static became a wall of white. Nothing else, just pure white; Draft felt himself begin to panic.

~ _First Aid!~_ He silently screamed. ~ _I CAN'T SEE!~_

* * *

 **Boom, that just happened.**


	10. Chapter 10

First Aid was internally a wreck when he got home, and as expected, Hot Spot was waiting for him. He should have known he couldn't keep anything from him. "Don't you have patrol?"

His leader shrugged. "There are more important things. What happened to Draft?" He said, cutting right to the chase. That was pretty much all the medic had worried about for the last week, and Hot Spot knew about the extra shifts he was taking. But the sorrow he'd felt through the bond today really took the oil-cake.

First Aid sat down on the couch beside him. He said quietly, "The same thing that happened to me."

"Huh?"

"You remember our first battle, how Defensor took that plasma round at point blank? How it short circuited my processor?"

" _No_." Hot Spot gasped, knowing exactly what he meant. "Don't tell me he's-"

" _Blind_." First Aid choked out. "His processor...I thought there wasn't any permanent damage, but his optical feeds….he can't..."

"You did everything you could." Hot Spot assured.

"But he's even younger than I was! I knew the risks in that battle, _I_ signed up for this. He's _blind_ now Hot Spot, and we don't have the parts to fix it. But even if we did Ratchet's the only surgeon with enough experience to fix him. At best he'll have to have his feeds rewired into a visor like me."

"There's nothing wrong with having a visor." Hot Spot said. He flicked First Aid's. "Lots of 'bots have those."

His brother sighed. "For decoration. They can take theirs off and still see just fine."

"Still, surely using a visor is better than being blind."

"I don't know how to make one - I'm not an engineer." First Aid said. "To build one they'd have to sync with Draft's processor, but he thinks in his language from _Dirt_. This is all my fault."

"Hey, stop it. This is _not_ your fault."

"It partly is. They should have known he didn't have a HUD, maybe this wouldn't have happened."

"Draft didn't have a HUD?" Hot Spot repeated. "What do you mean?"

First Aid leaned against him miserably. "I mean he _didn't have a HUD_. I installed it in him earlier, when he was in the brig, I thought it just needed to be reinstalled since someone had tampered with him. But he'd never had one before and got upset because he wasn't used to it so I taught him how to use it but not how _not_ to use it."

Draft hadn't had a _HUD_ before? That...actually explained a lot, actually. Wow. And what was that about someone tampering with him and being in the brig? "How's...how's he taking it?"

First Aid vented. "Not well. It's a good thing he can't talk yet."

"What does his guardian think?"

"I haven't told him. You know he hasn't come to visit once? And don't get me _started_ on how he disciplines him. He hit him, 'Spot, for something that wasn't even his fault."

"What!" Hot Spot said sharply. " _Who_ hit him? Whoever did shouldn't be his caretaker."

"There's nothing I can do about it. I hate to admit it, but this is _still_ the best arrangement. I've been in Draft's processor; he's not a sparkling, not really. Primus he deserves better." First Aid said. He felt the same towards the other sparklings now on base - they didn't deserve to grow up in someone else's war either - but it was especially true in Draft's case.

Hot Spot suddenly perked up beside him.

"Hey, I know! Wheeljack owes me a favor. How about _you_ get the specs and do the rewiring, and all _he_ has to do is build it. No one else has to sync with Draft and find out."

"That could work...except I don't know how to do the surgery. Mine was done to me, not by me."

"Wheeljack can walk you through it."

"Isn't that a little suspicious?" First Aid asked. Hot Spot waved a servo dismissively.

"You can say you want to do it because you need the experience - even if Ratchet found out, it would make sense to him. No one would care."

Hot Spot paused and dug around in his subspace for an astro-second, pulling out a datapad. "We can design one that's really cool. He'd like that, right? Didn't you say his, uh, that planet's technology was only Class M? Besides, sparklings _love_ new tech."

"I mean, I guess." First Aid agreed hesitantly, but his own visor was brightening at the idea. That might actually work. Wheeljack didn't have to know the real reason Draft fried his processor, and this way Draft could see again, even if it was through a visor and not his optics. Which they could possibly fix much later, if the right mech and parts came along. It was better than staying blind by a long shot. And Draft's cover wouldn't be broken as long as Wheeljack didn't mention it to Ratchet.

They spent the rest of his off-shift brainstorming on the stupid thing, most of Hot Spot's ideas not even physically possible (First Aid had had to put his foot down on the laser vision one, saying, "You can't make him shoot lasers out of it, that's not even remotely practical"). Blades dropped by and upon hearing their unfortunate news and subsequent solution, suggested a hologram capability. And also lasers. First Aid threatened to put them both on medical leave if they said that again.

"So why does Wheeljack owe you a favor?" First Aid asked. Hot Spot would take their finished design to Wheeljack he went and got the specs from Draft.

Hot Spot snickered. "Oh, I am _so_ glad you asked. See, one time, I was helping him with these subspace modulators, and he….-"

* * *

"Draft? I know you can hear me. Hello?"

~...~

"Draft, please respond."

~...~

"Come on, I got something for you." First Aid fished. Still nothing. Okay, time to pull a Streetwise. If Draft was going to be a sparkling about it, then so could he. "Draft. Hey, Draft. Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft-Draft Draft-Draft-"

~ _Go. Away_.~

Yup, the kid was still upset. "I found a way for you to see again."

~ _...You mean...you can fix me_?~

"Yes, but I'll have to put you under for the operation when it's ready to be wired in. Do I have your permission to do that?"

This wasn't a "necessary" surgery, so he had to ask. Though technically Draft was a minor; he was sure there was some loophole somewhere that allowed him to do whatever he wanted within reason. But it was still right to ask.

~ _Sure I guess. Wire what in?~_

"Your new visor."

~ _My new...what?~_

~ _Think high tech glasses for Cybertronians.~_ First Aid compared, deciding not to say that out loud. There were similarities. ~ _I wear a wired visor for similar reasons.~_

~ _Can I ever take it off?~_ Draft despaired.

~ _When we can replace the part of your processor that's been affected. And you can physically remove it any time you like, you just won't be able to see without it.~_

~ _Okay. Sure. I mean yes, yes, I'll try anything!~_ The sparkling accepted, like he thought First Aid might take it back.

~ _I have to go now, but don't worry, I'll see you soon.~_

~ _Ha ha, very funny.~_ Draft thought, though he was in a loads better mood than his earlier moping. He was going to see again? He was going to see again! Maybe. Likely. He supposed he semi-sort-of-maybe trusted First Aid, at least more than anyone else in this dump. He didn't know what he'd do if he remained blind, surrounded by strangers in a strange place.

 **...**

Draft got his voice before his visor. He was just laying there as usual when he mentally groaned out of sheer boredom, only to hear it out loud.

Wait.

"H...hello?" Draft said hoarsely. He could hear the beeping of medbay machinery, but no footsteps coming his way at the word. First Aid must be somewhere else.

He could talk! Woohoo! This was a step in the right direction, a definitive sign he was getting better. He'd rather see more than talk, but since that would soon be taken care of anyway he'd take what he got. He could talk!

When First Aid _did_ come back that day, he waited until he felt the mech leaning over him, hand clasping his as the other worked at his dataport, saying, "Hey. Twitch your finger if you're awake."

~ _Lean in closer.~_

"Um, why?" First Aid asked. Through the uplink, Draft urged, ~ _Just do it!~_ , mentally laughing at himself when he remembered the old meme. When First Aid leaned in closer he suddenly screeched " _HEY_!".

"Primus!" First Aid jumped. He scolded, "Don't do that!" Then it dawned on him. "Your vocalizer works?"

'Yup! H-How soon until I get the, uh, v-visor?"

Welp, his vocalize was working alright. Too bad he sucked at Standard. He felt First Aid pat his shoulder. "Actually, I was just coming to tell you Wheeljack finished."

"Who?"

"The mech who's making your visor. He'll be walking me through the procedure tomorrow."

"Wait, you've n-never d-done this before?"

"Don't worry." First Aid said. "I'm a professional."

"That doesn't make me feel b-better."

The medic suddenly said, "Uh-oh, Ratchet's coming," and left. A minute later Draft heard Ratchet ask him to get some more mesh gauze for someone else named Steeljaw.

Huh. Steeljaw. That was an interesting name. It always amused him to learn new people's designations. Strange that they actually meant something here, which was part of the reason he'd picked "Draft". In Iaconian-Standard it merely meant a current of air, which made sense for a flyer. But in English it could also mean 'to be drafted', another way to stick it to the Wreckers since he hadn't been allowed to keep his real name.

 **...**

"Still alive?" First Aid asked some time later.

"Only on the outside." Draft snickered. "Is it t-time?"

"Yes. Wheeljack, this is Draft. Draft, uh...Wheeljack." First Aid introduced, forgetting for a second that Draft couldn't see him thus making the introduction kind of pointless.

"Nice to meet you." Came a cheery voice.

"H-hi."

"Okay, I'm going to sedate you out here before we move you to one of the surgery rooms." First Aid said.

Draft was actually kind of nervous, even if he knew he had to do this, and he agreed, "Okay," keeping his voice as steady as he could. Something clicked into the dataport on his arm and he was suddenly drowsy. A different kind of blackness, the kind of not being verses not seeing, claimed him.

/Is he awake yet? What's taking so long? Primus, this kid recharges like the dead./

/Or maybe you're just impatient. Ever think about that?/

/Shut up Streetwise./

/Blades, the orn I follow that order from _you_ is the orn Pit freezes over./

/How about I order you _both_ to shut up and stop distracting First Aid?/ Hot Spot said. They were on the comm, watching through a patch through First Aid's optics to see Draft's reaction to his new visor. Which was technically illegal. But Hot Spot had insisted since this was his idea, and no one would be the wiser.

/Guys, stop it, I think he's waking up./ Groove interrupted.

Sure enough, Draft gave a groggy groan. He couldn't move, so he cried, "First Aid? Are you there? I, I still can't see anything."

His optics, a solid white, clearly registered nothing. They all heard First Aid say, "I'm right here. And that's because your visor's currently retracted."

"How do I m-make it come out?" .

"Just think about it. Like when you transform - you have the parts, you just have to think about using them." First Aid explained, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Draft didn't say anything. After a minute of silence he must have figured it out. He gasped as from each side of his face a piece of visor twisted and unfurled until the two halves met in the middle. The ends intertwined and locked, which started the boot up sequence that made the previously opaque glass turn blue. The look of astonishment on Draft's face was priceless.

"I can see!" He shouted, grinning like a lunatic.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" First Aid asked, the sparkling's expression making his spark melt. A smile like that was rare to come by these days.

/Yay! It worked./ Streetwise cheered over his comm.

/Ooh, ooh, First Aid, tell him about the holo-thingy. Tell him it was my idea./ Blades demanded. They all heard Draft say,

"How do I look?"

"Good. _Really_ good." First Aid told him, his own visor bright. And he meant it. Draft really _did_ look good with the custom visor; it was thin and ice blue. It made him look sharp.

/Tell him he looks like a dork./ Streetwise sniggered. /Like you./

/Nah mech, visors get _all_ the femmes./

/Would you two be quiet? Blades, he's like five./

/Yeah, like _you're_ one to talk you pedophile./ Streetwise reminded him, and he and Groove laughed. When they had relayed First Aid's story about Draft, the first thing the helicopter said was, "Vector Sigma I'm going to _jail_." He'd thought the sparkling was cute, even fragging material, but not anymore.

They were never going to let him live that one down.

"There's some other features I need to go through with you. Focus on the bottom right side of your field of vision. See the tiny circle? Keep your focus on it." First Aid instructed him.

"A...menu just popped up. There's different color blocks." Draft said.

"Good. The green rectangle is for night vision. The red is for infrared. The yellow is for scanning. The black-"

"Woah woah woah, infrared? _Night vision_?" Draft breathed. First Aid got the impression that if he could move, he would be jumping up and down in excitement right now. "Damn, what else does this thing do? Shoot _lasers_?"

/I _told_ you it was a good idea!/ Streetwise laughed. Hot Spot sent a smug ping to First Aid, who tried his best not to facepalm in front of Draft now that he could see it and think it was because of him.

"Uh, no, I'm afraid it doesn't do that." He chuckled. "I'm glad you like it though."

"First Aid, I love it! Thank you! Really. What do the other colors do?" Draft said. He was already trying out the night vision, which didn't work quite as advertised in the brightly lit operating room.

"The white changes tint; if you focus on it, another color menu will pop up, and you can tint everything in your vision that color." First Aid Said. "Though it's kind of pointless. And the black is for projection. It's a little more complicated."

"How come?"

First Aid was confused by the phrase. "What?"

"I mean _why_. Projection? Like, I can watch videos on it?"

"You could do that with your HUD anyway. I mean you can project holograms with it."

" **Bullshit."** Draft immediately challenged, fighting the smile that threatened to take over his face again. This was So. Cool.

"I...don't know what that phrase means either." First Aid admitted. What did animal fecal matter have to do with anything? Gross.

/What did he say?/ Hot Spot wanted to know.

/Was that the alien language? Make him say something else./ Groove pestered, intrigued.

First Aid ignored his brothers, used to Draft's bouts of English, as the Earth mecn explained, "I mean no way. Are you s-serious? I can _do_ that? C-Can _you_ do that?"

"No. My visor wasn't modified that way."

"But mine was, err, _is_?" Draft clarified. He couldn't believe it. This was like something out of a Star Trek episode. Wow.

First Aid nodded. "Yes. I believe the phrase is, _**merry Christmas**_ _?"_

Okay, first of all, it was past December, but Draft didn't have the heart to tell him. Wait a second. How long had he been missing? Draft had been on Ultra Magnus's ship nearly a month traveling to this stupid planet, and he'd been a member of its Autobot army for maybe another one. It was probably around February or March back home.

Damn.

"Yeah, uh **, merry Christmas."** Draft just went with it. It was the thought that counted. And to be honest, this was one of (if not _the_ ) coolest gifts he'd ever received. Discounting the fact that he was blind without it.

/The slag are you two saying to each other?/

/ _Now_ _kiss_./ Streetwise snickered.

/Party's over, get out of my head./

/Aww, but First Aid…./

/Bye./

The patch was abruptly disconnected, leaving the other four Protectobots in the blank. In reality Blades was sitting beside Streetwise on the couch in their quarters, and he punched him, laughing, "Now _kiss_? You are such a codpiece."

"Hey, it was funny." The racer defended, trying to not giggle at how abruptly First Aid had booted them. That alien phrase must have actually been an endearment or something. Ha. "I'm glad he liked it. He'll probably find a way to get himself slagged with it though. I can't _believe_ he fried himself so badly with a datapad - that takes talent."

"He does seem to have a knack for getting slagged." Blades mused, standing up and stretching.

"Where are _you_ going?"

"Out. I haven't flown in a while."

"Ugh, that is such an excuse."

Unlike ground troops, those with aerial alt-modes could go outside - even if only a few hundred thousand feet - whenever they wanted. Streetwise snorted. Blades could go frag himself. He exited his quarters, going the opposite direction as Blades, towards the rec room.

/Hey Slingshot, you busy?/ He commed.

/That depends./ The aerialbot replied. /What do you need?/ The two were friends; maybe it was a shared love of annoying their commanders. Maybe it was maybelline.

/How about a wingman? Rec room in five?/

/You know every mech and their creator's doing the same thing now that the femmes are back, right?/

/So? Since when have terrible odds ever stopped you before?/

/Pfft, never. That's probably why I'm terrible at Ranker, ask Smokescreen. I'm in./

* * *

 **I just thought how cool it would be if Draft had a kick-ass visor, and it'll have relevance later I swear.**


	11. Chapter 11

"You wished to see me, Sir."

"You have no need to be so formal, my friend. I know you got back some time ago, but as you can see," the Prime tapped a datapad, " I've been busy."

Ultra Magnus relaxed his posture slightly; was that also reference to Elita's recent return? He decided not to dwell on it. "With all due respect Sir, it is no trouble."

"How goes the search then?"

The leader of the Wrecker's faceplates were grave. "Incomplete."

"Did you find anything while you were out there?"

"No."

Surely the keeper of the Matrix had sensed his lie. But Ultra Magnus was loathe to tell him about Draft; the child was simply better off here, even if his own motives were selfish.

"Courier has given me another set of coordinates since you embarked." Optimus said, instead of calling him out like he expected. None of the mysterious Council, the eldest of their race, would ever come in person with things as they were. They sent a trusted messenger from wherever they hid instead, who was simply known by the designation _Courier_.

Ultra Magnus nodded curtly. "Of course. When do we leave?"

"As soon as possible; we _must_ find it."

"Understood."

"Very well. You're dismissed." Said Optimus, holding back a chuckle. Magnus could play the formality game all he liked, that didn't mean he had to. The way the mech flinched at the conjunction of "you" and "are" was definitely worth it.

Optimus rubbed his optics once he'd gone, getting back to the mountain of paperwork he'd yet to scale; leaders weren't all glory on the battlefield. The fact that Ultra Magnus of all people had just lied to him was...unsettling. Very unsettling. But if the _Matrix_ wanted to conspire with his Fourth then who was he to stop them? Primus alone knew his will.

Meanwhile Ultra Magnus exited the office, which changed location every week depending on Red Alert's mood. He considered: what to do with Draft? He was responsible for him whether they liked it or not, and couldn't very well take the sparkling with him; he needed to stay here and integrate with the troops. But he couldn't stay alone.

Making up his mind as he got in a lift, he commed his mechs,

/Twin Twist, Topspin, Roadbuster, Broadside: Optimus has given me another set of coordinates. Pack and meet in my quarters in a joor, we leave _today_./

/Yes Sir./ Broadside immediately answered, the kissass. Whirl wined,

/What am I, spare parts? I thought we had something _special_ 'Magsy./

/While we're gone, you can have something "special" with Draft./ Ultra Magnus informed him. Whirl was...the only suitable choice; an unfortunate but acceptable reality. Perhaps keeping track of the idiot while he was away would put them _both_ on a shorter leash.

/Ha! Babysitting duty!/

/Poor Draft./

/Poor _Whirl_!/

/But Sir!/ Whirl pleaded among the jeers. /You can't leave me with that lunatic! Can't Impactor-/

/Currently on a mission./

/Well surely when he gets back-/

/A _long_ mission./ Ultra Magnus growled. /Just make sure he's taking his rations and functional when I return./

Twin Twist' voice drifted over the comm, /Jeez Magnus, he's not a turbohound./

/You're right, he's _worse_ than a turbohound! That kid is a trouble magnet! Why _me_?/

/Because I order you to./ Ultra Magnus said with finality. Still Whirl insisted,

/You didn't say Springer. Springer, buddy, my mech, you gorgeous hunk of metal you, you're good with kids. I know deep down _you_ really wanna take this assignment, so out of the goodness of my spark I think I'll let you have it./

/Unicron wouldn't take this assignment./ Springer snorted. /Besides, it looks like I'll be busy with Hot Rod for a while, so you're on your own./

Hot Rod was the sparkling the femmes brought back to base; he'd taken a liking to Springer, and to be honest, it wasn't like the gruff mech hadn't fallen in love with him himself. Though he'd never admit it.

/I swear, we're nothin' more than a babysittin' service./ Whirl lamented, accepting his fate. Draft didn't like him. Like, he _really_ didn't like him. The feeling was mutual.

/Come on, we'll only be gone a groon, tops./ Topspin assured him.

/If that little slag gets me in trouble…./

/That would be hilarious./ Roadbuster chuckled. Ultra Magnus, having given his orders and because Whirl was still talking and generally existing, had already signed off the comm.

/Ooh, ooh, if you're his caretaker, does that mean he gets to call you ' _Opi_ '?/ Topspin sniggered.

/Pretty sure that's an interphase slur on _Dirt_./ Broadside said, and the chat erupted in laughter.

/Frag _you._ /

/No no, it means you're supposed to frag _him_. I think. **Humans** are slaggin' weird./

Whirl huffed, /Hey, the guy's five, even I have standards./

/Please, Perceptor couldn't find your standards with his microscope./ Broadside retorted.

/That's not the _only_ thing he wouldn't find./ Twin Twist teased, and the chat filled with laughter again at Whirl's expense.

* * *

Soon.

That single word was all Draft could think of. During the visor surgery, First Aid said he'd given him something that would speed up the repair nanites in his processor - eww - so his stay went from another week to three days. On the second day, Ultra Magnus actually made an appearance (get it, 'cause now he could see?). But he had Whirl with him, of all people.

"I see your recovery is going well." Was the first thing he said, not commenting on the visor. Did he know?

"Yeah." Draft grunted. Ultra Magnus hadn't otherwise visited him this whole time; "guardian" of the year right here. He dimmed his visor at Whirl. "What do _you_ w-want?"

"Nothing to do with you…". He thought he heard the cyclops mutter, but Ultra Magnus talked over him,

"I have a very important mission to complete. Whirl is in charge until I return."

Draft blinked slowly. Then remembered he was wearing a visor.

"No."

" _Yes_." Whirl giggled, rubbing his pincers together like every cartoon villain ever.

"You can't b-be serious." Draft pleaded. Now of all times the guy grows a sense of humor?

"Why not?

"Because he's _crazy_!"

"Then you'll get along nicely." Ultra Magnus growled. "You don't have to like it, you just have to live with it."

" **Um** , that's the p-problem, I'm pretty sure he's going to kill me." Draft said nervously. "Ultra Magnus, _please_!"

"Hey, I will _not_ kill you!...Much." Whirl said, offended.

" **Do you even know what that word means, moron?"** Draft hissed. Whirl leaned in closer.

"Would you like to find out?"

"That's enough. _Both_ of you. Draft, stop using that idiotic language." Ultra Magnus snapped, already able to tell this was such a splendid dea. He unsubspaced a stack of datapads and put them on Draft's berth. "I expect these to be finished when I get back."

"What are they?" Draft said. Ultra Magnus raised an optic ridge.

"You still have vorns of schooling to catch up on, or did you think I would forget?"

"Kinda hoping you w-would…."

"I'll be back within the groon." His guardian said, ignoring the grumbled comment and leaving, lest Ratchet come back from the distraction he'd ordered Springer to create and see the three of them.

Draft glared at Whirl when he was gone. "How long even _is_ a groon?"

Whirl winked - or maybe blinked, it was hard to tell on a guy with one optic - and purred, "Long enough." Then he _skipped_ out of the medbay after Magnus like a freaking gazelle.

 _Great,_ Draft thought. _I'm going to die._

Draft got to dwell on what was likely in store for him because other than that, no one else came to visit, as usual. He decided to distract himself with a hardy game of Tetris. If, no, _when_ he got back to Earth, he decided, he was going to be the Tetris World Champion.

Draft paused some time later when he felt something watching him. He minimized his game of Tetris, only to find there actually _was_ a person watching him. A tiny person.

"Hello?"

The miniature Cybertronian standing in front of him. Alrighty then _._

"How are y-you?" Draft tried again, still only receiving a blank stare in return. Okay, getting kinda weird. Then something clicked.

"Are you a...s-sparkling?" He gasped. Didn't what's his face - Rotor-something - say there was a sparkling on base now? So this was what...what a sparkling was. What he was supposed to be. Someone his age, or at least in the ballpark.

Why was this kid just staring at him? He wished he would stop.

"Sorry about that, he's not bothering you, is he?" A white 'bot said, coming over and scooping the sparkling up. Draft shook his head no, then said,

"It's okay. What's his **na** -designation?"

"Bluestreak" The strangely petite 'bot - at least compared to everyone else he'd met - introduced, shifting him in his arms. "I'm Starwish."

"Draft." Draft said. He thought 'Starwish' was kind of a dumb name for a robot, but he wasn't about to say anything considering _his_ real name was in English. He noticed the shoulder guard insignia. "Are you a medic, or…?"

"Just in training; I was placed under First Aid."

"You r-really lucked out then," Draft told him. "I don't know about the other m-medics here, but he's a good t-teacher."

"Thanks. Are you an apprentice too?" Starwish said, curious.

"N-Not unless being the p-patient counts." Draft smirked. "I'm not smart enough for that." That was the understatement of the corn. No, err, vorn. He didn't even know how his species reproduced.

"So what's wrong with you?" Starwish asked, eyeing him. The grey flyer didn't _look_ injured, though he was kind of cute. What was wrong with his vocalizer?

"Nothing?" Draft said. "W-What's wrong with _you_?"

"No no no, I meant, um, why are you in the medbay? Sorry I-"

"Kidding." Draft said. "I had accident w-with a tampered datapad, it fried my pro...cessor. What? I got betta'." Draft grinned, though he knew this guy wouldn't get the Monty Python reference. What a shame.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Is that what happened to your vocalizer?"

The flyer blinked. So far no one had called him out on his atrocious Standard to his face. Well, except for Air Raid.

"Yes." Draft sighed. "That's w-why I talk like this."

Starwish suddenly looked up. "Comm." He explained, motioning to one of his triangular audio fins. "I have to go. It was nice meeting you."

"Nice meeting you." Draft repeated, watching him go. There was something weirdly feminine about that mech. Whatever it was, it niggled at the back of his processor as he watched him walk away with Bluestreak in tow.

* * *

"Is something wrong?"

Draft snapped out of his momentary stupor, having forgotten First Aid was there. Which was impressive, considering the medic was literally right next to him.

"It's nothing." He said lamely. T-minus one more day to go.

"You're a terrible liar."

"Thanks?"

They were walking laps around the medbay, First Aid's hands hovering near in case he decide to take a spill. But Draft felt confident he wouldn't, and First Aid had to keep telling him to slow down because Ratchet didn't like people running in his medbay.

Draft rolled his shoulders as he took swift, steady strides. "Come on, can't I just walk around the base a little? I only have a **day** left anyway."

It had been two days since he got his visor.

First Aid was silent for a minute, though no less attentive. Decided to say, "It's not like you're technically confined to the medbay, since thanks to me Ratchet barely knows you exist. But what could you do out there that you couldn't in here? Besides the running, which you're not ready for anyway."

"What are you talking about, I am ready for running. Just watch me."

But before he could take off and prove his point in the most annoying way possible, First Aid grabbed his arm. "Do you want _him_ to watch too?"

They both (totally subtle) looked over at Ratchet, who was attending to a green mech across the 'bay. Draft shook his head.

"Point taken. Still, don't you guys have a **gym** or a private t-training room, or something?"

"First Aid, Blaster busted his shoulder in his quarters, don't ask me how. Go check it out!"

"Yes Sir!" First Aid called automatically, not even glancing up, suspecting that his mentor hadn't bothered to look at him either when he spoke. It wasn't that they like being rude to each other; that was just how Ratchet operated, and First Aid was used to it.

Draft flicked his wings restlessly as First Aid herded him back towards his berth. " **Hey, can I come with you?"**

"What? No."

"Whyyyyyyy nooooooooot." Draft pouted, sitting down dramatically. First Aid canted his helm.

"That was rather sparkling-like of you."

"M-Make up your minds." The Earth-mech muttered, glaring to the side. It was always Ultra Magnus telling him to stop being a sparkling and then someone else reminding him that he was. The only thing he was right now was bored.

"...Okay."

Wait, what? "Really?"

"Yeah, come on. But don't say much. In fact, it would be best if you didn't say anything at all." First Aid relented, feeling too sorry for Draft. Poor kid was probably bored. And this was probably a mistake.

"Why not?"

"Blaster is a communications mech, and he shares quarters with Jazz, so he's good at picking up on things." First Aid explained, though he knew for a fact that Jazz never used them, it was only an alibi Blaster would back up when needed.

"Oh."

They got in a lift, and Draft eyed the buttons before turning around to watch through the window. He could make out the city in the distance, or what was left of it. People said this base was in Iacon. Was that Iacon?

"It must have b-been beautiful." The flyer said, remembering the destroyed metropolis he'd visited on his like, _one_ patrol off base. He needed to get out more.

"What?"

"That." Draft repeated, pointing out the window. "Is that Iacon?"

First Aid turned to face out like him. "Yes." He said. "And yes, it was. Iacon was our planet's capitol. People called it the "Jewel of Cybertron" for good reason."

That only made Draft sadder. Then he shoved the feeling away; he'd been "born" during this war (however that worked), so it wasn't like he would have gotten to see it anyway. "Did you live there?"

"No, but Ratchet did."

The lift stopped and they got out. Draft noticed there were a lot more doors down the grey hallway than usual. "Where are we?"

"The barracks. Normally you would have been assigned one with another mech or two, but Ultra Magnus felt you might expose yourself."

"Yeah..." Draft hated to agreed, since he hated Ultra Magnus, and eventually First Aid stopped in front of one of the doors. Draft nearly knocked but then remembered again that Cybertronians didn't do that. First Aid was probably pinging him. He was proven right when the door _WHOOSHed_ open to reveal...huh? Another _sparkling_?

The navy and white sparkling was maybe half again as tall as Bluestreak, and sported mods that could give even Ultra Magnus's bigass shoulder guards a run for their money. He also wore a an orange facemask like First Aid. He was actually kind of cute when you thought about it, like a mini-First Aid, and Draft kneeled down to get more on his level.

"Awww, h-hi little guy! You are _soooo_ cute!"

It took him maybe 2.5 seconds to realize First Aid and the mech were just _staring_ at him in abject horror, and was smart enough to ask, " _What_?"

First Aid shoved him out of the way, hastily blurting, "I don't think he's ever met a cassette before and we just found out the femmes brought back sparklings. Draft, Eject is an _adult_."

Oh, snap. Draft felt his cooling fans kick in as he processed what just happened, and his plating heated to supernova levels. "I-I'm _so_ sorry, I t-totally thought you w-were, I mean n-not th-that you really _look_ like, I m-mean…I'll just go kill myself now…."

But to his relief (and infinite embarrassment), the small mech snickered, then giggled, then burst out full on laughing, visor bright.

"It's fine, I got, I get that a lot." He wheezed after a second, still doubled over. "Sometimes. It's, *haha*, fine."

/What did I _tell_ you?!/ First Aid demanded on a private channel.

/ **Uhhhh...that..Iacon was the jewel of Cybertron?** /

/ _Before_ that!/

/ **That in Ultra Magnus's case, it** _ **is**_ **physically possible to shove a stick up your ass**./

/What the- I didn't say that./

/ **It was implied.** /

"Come in, come in, Blaster's in the main room." Eject giggled, ushering the pair inside. Draft couldn't help but stare around the well decorated space nearly as big as Hot Spot's quarters, partly out of curiosity and partly because he was too ashamed to look at Eject again. Strange devices he had no name for were arranged on one wall, all the walls of course being painted a myriad of bright colors that weren't exactly easy on the eyes. Wanting to end it all from sheer embarrassment aside, were they _sure_ a sparkling didn't live here? Or at least, had decorated the place?

/ **What do those things do? Are they weapons?** / Draft asked, too embarrassed to speak Standard anytime soon.

/They're instruments. Don't touch anything. I _mean_ it/

Blaster - whom Draft recognized from the party, he thought the name had sounded familiar - was sitting on the couch, another midget/not-a-sparkling standing on it next to him and messing with his shoulder, practically Eject's twin except that he was jet black. Draft would eternally wonder if facemasked mechs had a face underneath them or if that _was_ their face. He could ask First Aid later.

"Good orn First Aid." Blaster greeted almost apologetically. He grinned at Draft as if he'd heard the blunder outside. "You an apprentice?"

"No." First Aid answered for him. "More like a patient."

/ **Dude** , **what's a cassette?** /

/I'll explain later, stop distracting me **.** /

/ **But why are they so small?** /

/ _Shut up_./

"Nice to meet ya. I'm Blaster."

" **I kno** -I mean, I kn-know. I mean, uh, I saw you. At the party. You were good. I'm D-Draft." Draft said haltingly like a complete moron. He wanted to slam his head into a wall. Repeatedly.

"You play?" Blaster asked, having noticed the way "Draft" looked at his collection of (mostly) Cybertronian instruments.

"N-None of th-these."

"What were you even _doing_?" First Aid interrupted, shining a light into the damaged shoulder components with a transformed finger while poking at it with another. "The joint's completely out of its socket."

Suddenly Blaster's chassis _split apart_ and a yellow, four legged thing jumped out to state, "I'm afraid that part's my fault. We were playing base-trek."

Draft yelped and scrambled back, caught off guard. Was this some kind of practical joke? Was he on camera? What. The. Fuck.

/Draft, relax. You're drawing attention to yourself./

/ **A cat** **just popped out of that guy's fucking chest like in** _ **Alien**_ **! First Aid, it's talking! It's** _ **talking**_ **! It just said something did you hear that? I can't believe-...!** /

First Aid's shoulders were shaking as he tried not to laugh, because he could totally understand where Draft was coming from. Steeljaw _did_ resemble an Earth feline. Though he didn't get what the "alien" reference was about.

"Draft." First Aid said aloud, smothering a giggle. "This is Steeljaw. Another of Blaster's cassettes." The medic turned to his patient. "I'm sorry, he's never met cassettes before."

"That explains why he's looking at me like I just hailed Unicron." Steeljaw said, swishing his tail.

Draft could not _believe_ it was talking.

"It's okay mech, he doesn't bite." Blaster laughed. "Much."

"Only Decepticons." Steeljaw promised. Blaster suddenly flinched when First Aid used the momentary distraction to pop the offending limb back into place. _SMACK_

"Oww, easy 'Aid. You really are the Hatchet's apprentice." Blaster grumbled, rubbing it.

"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes." First Aid huffed. "That should do it; but I'd mention it to Ratchet on your next scheduled maintenance."

"Will do. Many thanks."

"Come on Draft. We should head back to the medbay."

Didn't need to tell him twice; this was too freaky. He scrambled to follow First Aid out the door, and when it closed behind them neither of them said anything for a second. That was until Draft made eye (visor) contact, and they both burst out laughing.

When First Aid regained control of himself, he pointed at him. "That's it, you are _so_ "grounded."

"Oh come on! How was I supposed to know? And how come that guy looked like a _**cat**_?"

"That's just the way he looks!"

"Well that's just dumb." Draft muttered. Robots that looked like cats? Who came up with this? Might as well have people that looked like birds, or rhinos, or hell, _dinosaurs_ for all the sense that made. They went back to the medbay.

* * *

 **Hello again, been awhile.**


	12. Chapter 12

He was free! Finally free! Other than his T-cog, which First Aid had explained wouldn't work for yet _another_ week (note to self, never fry your processor again), he was good to go. Draft felt like pulling a Whirl and skipping down the hallway, but the mere thought of the wrecker instantly sobered him.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Maybe Ultra Magnus was already back? Since he still didn't know what the hell a groon was supposed to be, he _could_ be back already. It was possible.

"Ultra Magnus?" Draft called, when he got to their quarters and the door to swished open. The motion sensitive lights turned on when he stepped inside, revealing them to be apparently empty. Huh.

" _DRAFT_!" Whirl suddenly screeched in his audio. Draft screamed and jumped which turned into a spectacular fall, startled out of his mind. Pretty sure he had just leaked a little.

" _ **Whirl**_ **!"**

"Ah ah ah, Magsy said you're not supposed to talk _Dirt_ y to me." Whirl giggled at his own joke. "These quarters are huge! I can't believe you have your own room!"

"Lucky me." Draft growled.

"You know what? You're just ungrateful, that's what _you_ are." Whirl said, pointing at him. He'd heard that.

Draft scowled. "You're right, _th-thank you f_ or throwing me out the airlock after leaving **Earth**. Highlight of the trip."

"Awww, you're not still mad about that, are you?"

Draft jabbed the button to his door, wishing Cybertronian doors weren't all automated so he could have the satisfaction of slamming it in Whirl's face. Or, err, optic. "What do _you_ thin-hey, what'd you do to my room?"

His desk, his berth, his floor, the walls were covered in...bubble wrap? Whirl slid up next to him, pincers working at his own piece of the plasticky material with a soft _pop pop._ "No wonder you're in the medbay so often, Magsy never baby proofed the place."

"Th-This is...where did you _get_ this?" Draft asked, too dumbfounded to be insulted by the baby-proof comment. Did Cybertronians use bubble wrap? 'Caaaaause he was pretty sure they didn't.

"The big M's ship has tons of storage space, especially when you fold this stuff. And from the nice **humans** guarding a building with lots of junk in it, duh."

Draft looked at him. "What?"

Whirl shrugged. "The boxes all _said_ Prime, but he wasn't there."

"And they just g-gave this to you?"

"You know, "gave" is such a strong word."

"You robbed a warehouse?!" Draft gasped.

"That's the one! Warehouse. And no, I only took the packing material, I didn't take the other stuff in those boxes. **Humans** ship some pretty weird slag-"

" **Oh my god."**

"-sometimes, and half of it was that flimsy-aft garbage you call armor-"

" **I can't believe this."**

"-that doesn't even _look_ like armor. Trust me, I did whoever bought them a favor cause that slag was uglier than **Detroit,** " Whirl paused expectantly. "This is the part where you say the line that leads to punching."

" **You're despicable."**

"Not even a chuckle?"

" **Horrible."**

"I looked up _Dirt_ humor for you!"

That was the least of Draft's concerns. Knowing Whirl-" **You raided an Amazon warehouse for** _ **bubble wrap**_ **? Jesus** **Christ Whirl, did you** _ **kill**_ **anybody?"**

Whirl bopped him on the head with one of his claws. "Of course not silly, Ultra Magnus told us to keep a low profile."

" **And stealing a bunch of bubble** **wrap was keeping a low profile?!"** Draft demanded.

What was _wrong_ with him?

Whirl didn't say anything for a second, just narrowed his optic while he crackled the piece held in his pincers. "...I couldn't resist.

 **...**

Evening - by _his_ definition, but the days here were longer - was definitely happy hour for the rec room. Luckily Draft managed to find a table. A still full cube of energon rested by his right arm, the stack of homework datapads Ultra Magnus had given him to his left; anything was better than studying in his room with Whirl hanging around.

He took a sip of his energon, then shook the cube to make the slightly fluorescent liquid swirl. Did Cybertronians ever eat anything else? Or was he doomed to this bland stuff for eternity.

"Why is it every time I see you, you're either dying or look like you're having an existential crisis?" A familiar voice chuckled.

Draft looked up, surprised. "What are you doing here? I thought everyone went with Ultra Magnus."

"Yeah, well, there's more important things." Springer shrugged. Draft briefly dimmed his visor like ' _oh_ _really_ ', only then noticing the short mech standing behind him.

"Hi." The mech smiled. "I'm Hot Rod. Can we sit down?"

"Sure?" Draft said, glancing at Springer. The Wrecker shrugged.

"There aren't any other tables."

Draft's wings drooped. "Oh."

"Just _kidding_." Springer insisted. He took the seat across, and his orange friend scooted in beside him only to immediately launch into conversation with, "Hey, how do you say 'Hot Rod' on _Dirt_?"

Draft gasped " _What_!" and jumped up, wings flared in horror. This guy _knew_ about him.

"Woa, take it easy mech. I told the kid a little about you is all." Springer eased.

" _Whyyyyyy_ would you d-do that?" Draft demanded, like the guy wasn't sitting right there. Kid?

"I'm his guardian now, he knows I'm a Wrecker, but that you're not. Best explanation for why you're around a lot was the truth. Don't worry, he can keep a secret."

That didn't sound like the best explanation to _him_ \- in fact, it sounded kind of stupid - but Draft gave a little nod anyway, reclaiming his seat at Springer's prompting. Springer shot Hot Rod a chastising look. "What did I say about talking about _Dirt_ in public?"

"That we aren't allowed to." Hot Rod said. "Sorry."

"Just be more careful. I like the visor, by the way." Springer complimented, shifting his focus from one youngster to another; Ultra Magnus may have to put up with Draft on the daily, but they were all partly responsible for him. "Looks good. I know you didn't exactly have a choice getting it."

"Wait, you know that I'm...I mean, w-why I have it?" Draft said, lowering his voice. Did that mean Ultra Magnus knew as well, and just hadn't said anything earlier? He didn't know if he should award him brownie points or be offended.

"First Aid told us. Don't worry, it's not a big deal as long as Ratchet doesn't catch you. It used to be more common than you think."

"Used to be?"

"Idiots don't last long in war." Springer remarked, surprisingly somber. Realizing what he'd implied at Draft's terrified expression, he quickly backtracked, "Not that you're _that_ kind of idiot; you didn't know."

Draft deadpanned, "Thanks."

"What are you guys talking about?" Hot Rod asked, not catching any of that. This conversation made no sense.

"Nothing you should worry about." Springer deflected. Back at Draft: "So, how's everything on the home front?"

"Fine."

"No one has ever said "fine" like that meant it. And not like that." Springer declared. He gestured to the stack of datapads. "What are those?"

"Homework."

"Ah. What subject?"

He reached forward to find out just that, but Draft slammed his hands down on the one he'd been using. "It's s-still just the, uh, the b-basic stuff. Mainly..writing."

"I can't see?" Springer teased, amused, aware that Draft's Standard worsened when he was upset or embarrassed. Draft glanced at Hot Rod. "It's p-pretty bad. Why do I even _have_ to learn how to write if everyone just types everything?"

Hot Rod snickered. "You can't be _that_ bad."

"T-trust me, I can and I am." Draft assured him.

Springer rolled his optics. "That's a stupid question that I know you know the answer to."

"Just pointing it out."

"Let me see."

"Uh…"

While not exactly a yes, it wasn't a definitive "no" either, and Springer wedged the datapad out from under Draft's hands. Hot Rod tried to peek too, but the bigger mech kept him at arm's length while he looked at it himself. Half a minute passed.

"Well?" Both Hot Rod and Draft asked.

"It's…," Springer fumbled for the words. Primus. "Well, okay, it _is_ bad. What on the fifth moon of Pizaz are you trying to write?"

Hot Rod used the question as a chance to see for himself, and tapped the screen to get his guardian's attention. "Ohhhh, I get it. He wrote it left to right horizontally." He glanced up. "You're not supposed to do that."

"What the-but that's how a **book** First Aid gave me was written!" Draft defended.

"Yeah, but the instructions say to write formally, which is _vertical_ , left to right." Springer informed him, reassessing the work now that he knew what was he was looking at. Hot Rod asked,

"What's a ' _ **book**_ '?"

Springer shot them both a look that said to keep it in Standard before refocusing on the 'pad. Draft shrugged. "Sorry, I d-don't know your word for it. It's like...like what you would read on a screen. A s-story or report or anything, really. Like a...physical datapad."

Well that made sense. Not. Hot Rod tilted his helm. "Huh?"

"The, **uh** , pages on the screen are sheets, bound together." Draft tried again, spreading his hands to mime it. This time he got the idea across, because Hot Rod said, "You mean you have to flip through all the actual pages just to find the one you want?"

"Sounds time consuming." Springer put in his two cents, baffled. Not to mention heavy. What a backwards idea.

Hot Rod stared at Draft like he was witnessing a miracle. "Springer didn't say the **hoominz** were _that_ low tech! How did you survive?"

"The _**humans**_ weren't." Draft corrected, glaring. "We h-have the equivalent of datapads, too. Some just prefer **books**."

"Annnnnnd speaking of datapads, other than writing it the wrong way, your glyphs look pretty good for a beginner." Springer praised, giving him his datapad - or 'book', whatever he wanted to call it - back. Draft shook his helm.

"They're barely legible."

"So? You'll get there."

"Yeah, I had trouble adding past tense to glyphs when I was little too." Hot Rod agreed. Draft's wings twitched at that.

"I am _not_ 'little'."

"Aren't you like four?"

" _Shhhhhhhhhh_!" Both Springer and Draft hissed at once, the former glancing up to see if anyone was listening. Not that they'd likely understand that out of context. "Primus Hot Rod, You can't just _say_ that."

"Sorry." Hot Rod apologized again. Their conversation died for a minute, so Springer shifted gears. He eyed the datapad back in Draft's possession.

"Hey. How are you doing your reports?"

A pause. "What?"

"Your reports," Springer said, frowning. "You _are_ back on the schedule, right? What are they having you do?"

Draft's expression turned wry. "Light duty until I get my..t-cog back, so Monitor shifts. If it's possible to d-die of boredom, it's doing _that_."

"I feel ya. But seriously, how are you doing the reports?"

"What reports? I didn't see anything."

"You still have to write a report!" Springer insisted, exasperated. They were going in circles. Beside him Hot Rod smiled, realizing the same thing he was: "You haven't been doing them."

"Yeah, because _there's nothing to report._ " Draft repeated. And also because he low-key didn't know how to do them. It was fine though, because he never saw anything important, nor was he an important person. What was the big deal?

The Wrecker jabbed his finger at him, trying to school his face and sound serious but coming out all flustered, "You can't just not _do_ them. You, I mean, you _can't_. This is an army. Hasn't Silverbolt said anything about it?"

Hot Rod outright laughed.

"No?" Draft said. "I went to ask him something earlier, but he wasn't in his office. Everyone's still out in the field. The battle at, uh, m-metal heights?"

"Chrome heights," Springer corrected, now easily serious. "Prowl got injured in an accident - unrelated - but he managed to catch the last of it, so we didn't take too many losses." He scowled. "Still. Maybe would've been less if he directed the whole thing."

Hot Rod shifted in his seat, acting interested, but Draft didn't know who Prowl was. He didn't think much about the fact that his teammates were out there fighting for their lives while he was in here, serving light duty because he was stupid. Should he feel guilty about that?

"Hey now, lighten up you two. Draft, I'm sure your friends are fine. Takes a lot to knock Superion out of a fight." Springer reassured, misinterpreting his silence. "They're probably on their way back right now."

What? Who the heck was 'Superion'? They'd been talking about his teammates - Silverbolt and the guys. Draft opened his mouth to ask, but Springer changed the subject. "Welp, I have a patrol to get to. Can I trust you to keep him out of trouble?"

His question was purposely open ended, leading both mechling's to answer,

"Yeah." "Okay."

They looked at each other, surprised. Hot Rod pointed to himself. "Hey, I'm not the one that needs a babysitter."

"Neither do I."

"You fried yourself with a datapad."

"Well _you're_ a-

"Behave." Springer chucked. He pointed at Draft. "And come to my quarters after shift, we're _doing_ those reports."

Then he took his leave of them, smirking the whole way. His work here was done. Hot Rod watched him leave. Without missing a beat he turned to Draft and said, "Hey, let's get out of here."

"What?"

"Usually people'll want to sit with me just because I'm young." Hot Rod explained. Plus, he wanted to grill Draft about his homeworld, which he couldn't do in here.

Draft put his his cube down. "S-Sounds patronizing."

"Tell me about it. Wanna go to the shooting range?"

"Are you allowed in there?" Draft asked.

Hot Rod frowned. " _You_ are."

"That's different."

"Only on record."

"-Which I would l-like to keep clean."

"Come oooooooon." Hot Rod whined. "Springer lets me go with him all the time. It'll be fun. And no one cares; I bet you five credits nobody's even _in_ there."

"I don't want to get in trouble."

Hot Rod nodded. "We won't. Quit being such an Ultra Magnus about it."

Draft wasn't sure if it was on purpose, but Hot Rod's words had the desired effect. Would Ultra Magnus procrastinate at the firing range? The answer was no, probably not. Which meant _his_ answer was: "...Fine."

* * *

As always, the office was just as he left it. A tall mech stood motionless in the doorway, the light of the hallway behind him illuminating telltale dents and scratches. Then his wings stirred, activating the motion sensitive lights.

Dang it. Silverbolt would never tell his brothers, but the Autobot's Aeril Commander liked to see how far he could get before he activated them. He'd almost made it to his desk once.

Game over, he simply strode in like normal and settled down, drumming his fingers out of habit before acknowledging the stack of datapads somebody had left him. Hmm. Wasn't it usually higher? A weary smile took hold - he could finish these within the joor, then power down until Ratchet came for him, or one of his idiots tempted fate. Whichever came first.

The smile didn't last when he booted the first one up and knew before he had even finished what was in it - of course this would be at the top of the list. So he put it back at the bottom; he'd deal with that headache last.

He was three datapads down, nine to go when a familiar Khalian accent said, "Figures."

"I thought the door was locked." Silverbolt didn't bother looking up.

"Good thing someone gave me the access code."

Silverbolt smiled, still reading a 'pad, and muttered more to himself, "What kind of fool would ever do that?"

"The kind that would rather look at reports than after his team. Or…-" He felt Jetfire trace a particularly deep cut along his shoulder; sneaky fragger, how had he gotten behind him so fast? "...-himself."

That got the commander to look up. "Slingshot disobeyed a direct order which resulted in the injuries to himself as well as Delta. He deserves whatever Ratchet decides he gets. Quit it, I'm okay."

He swatted his Sparkmate's wandering servo, so Jetfire moved back in front of him.

"You don't _look_ okay."

"It's not that bad - medical said I could get some work done while they're busy."

"That's not an excuse."

"Doctor's orders, that's the _best_ kind of excuse." Silverbolt disagreed, putting the datapad he'd been reading in the 'finished' pile and picking up a new one. Jetfire snatched it right out of his hands.

"Come on, I know you're offlining for a warm shower and some recharge."

"Jetfire, the paperwork-"

"-Can wait until you get back, or at least buff out those dents. It's waited all cycle, it can wait some more."

"...Remind me to change that access code." Silverbolt sighed, deciding which was worse - trying to do anything productive with his attention-seeking sparkmate on the loose or procrastinating, which went against his conscientious nature. But Jetfire knew what he really meant. He grabbed a servo, dragging the silver shuttle to his peds, and whether he was leading him to the washracks or back to their shared quarters, Silverbolt honestly didn't care.

 _Surprise me_ , he thought. Jetfire apparently picked up on it because his engine revved, ruining it.

When they got there though, they found one pissed off 'bot already inside. Air Raid balanced on the back of the couch, tossing his favorite knives at a target on the wall. The bomber, sporting fresh mesh bandaging and a telltale dent on the helm that wasn't there pre-medbay, paused, took one look at them, and awkwardly said,

"Yeah...I gotta go..do..something."

He hustled off the couch to beat a hasty retreat, but not before giving them _the_ look as he stomped out. Silverbolt sighed, his embarrassment eliciting a laugh from Jetfire. Sometimes he felt bad 'Raid had to put up with this. Then again, technically he'd volunteered, since they were a trine. He was probably just pissy because Slingshot was still in the medbay.

The door shut behind him; and then there were two. Jetfire grinned.

* * *

 _BANG_

" **Gahh,** _ **Hot Rod**_ **!"** Draft yelped, dropping to his knees. Hot Rod poked his head out from behind cover.

"Did I hit you?!"

" _ **Yes**_ **, and it fucking** _ **hurt**_ **!"** Draft swore, switching back to English where he could adequately express his displeasure. He liked human swears better. Luckily Hot Rod and him were the only ones at the firing range at the moment.

"Does that mean yes? Wohoo!" The orange mechling cheered, approaching him after calling "time-out!" He squatted. "Let me see."

Draft removed his hands, and Hot Rod made an whistling sound through his denta. He wished he could do that. " **That bad?"**

"What?"

"W-What's the d-damage?" He chuckled, though it came out as more of a wheeze because did he mention that that _really_ _fucking_ _hurt_. Up until now they'd been having fun - Draft had to admit, Hot Rod wasn't so bad. They'd talked a lot about Earth.

"It looks like the Hatchet got you." Hot Rod snickered.

Draft felt along his helm and found the crater he meant. " **Great."**

"What does _that_ mean?"

"I said: 'great'." Draft supplied, having to think about it for a second. "I think we're done here."

They walked towards the exit, and Hot Rod palmed open the door that lead out of the courtyard turned Autobot gun range. Weirdly enough, none of the four walls surrounding it had any windows. Draft had already noticed there wasn't an abundance of them like with human buildings - must be a culture thing. Except the lifts, which, weirdly enough, were like 90% window. Because reasons.

"Think on the bright side." Hot Rod said, breaking him from his thoughts. "I'm a _**great**_ shot."

Hey, that was actually pretty good. " **Fuck you."**

"What does _that_ mean?"

Draft hid his smirk. Told him it meant 'yeah'. He then checked the time on his HUD's chronometer; Springer wasn't due to be back from patrol yet, so he decided, "I'm going back to my quarters."

"You sure you don't want to go to the medbay for that?"

Draft frowned. First Aid would be annoyed that he was back literally a day, err, _orn_ , into his exile. What was he, a boomerang? "Springer's given me worse; dents pop out you know."

"Really? What for?"

"I wasn't exactly thrilled to get a one way ticket to Cybertron." Draft said in lieu of the real story. They goodbyed and split up, Draft supposing he wouldn't mind hanging out with the goodnatured mech if he got the chance again; finally, someone closer to his age to talk to. And he actually thought his Earth background was cool.

 _tink-tink-tink_

Draft stopped walking, looking back. Huh. It was still just as empty hallway behind him, same as when he'd passed through it. Could've sworn he heard a-

 _TINK-TINK-TINK_

-Noise. Draft gasped and spun around, but he didn't see anyone, even though that one had sounded close. What was that? A hallucination? And then he looked down.

Something with surprisingly big optics looked up.

Draft stared at the little round...thing, trying to determine if it was a threat, and felt like it was doing the same. It looked like a metal bug but the size of a kitten, with ludicrously huge optics that gave it more of a ragdoll appearance. Tiny metal legs made that tinkling sound again as it skittered back a pace and blinked. You know, it was actually kind of cute.

"Hey, uh, little...metal...dude."

Best to cover his bases. To be fair, he was part of a race of shape-shifting robots. If a talking cat was considered one of them, for all he knew, anything could be. Although it didn't _look_ intelligent. It didn't respond. Draft knelt down after a second to slowly reach out and pet it - maybe it was a pet or something that somebody lost; he _was_ in the main barracks. But it shied away before he could touch it.

 _Maybe if I offer it energon, it'll like me more_ , Draft wondered. Which wasn't that illogical of an assumption: he'd never seen a scraplet before.

He unsubspaced a canteen of energon and held it out. "Here you go."

It blinked. Shuffled closer. But instead of taking a drink, it suddenly opened its mouth to reveal serrated blades and went to town on the _container_ , making Draft drop it in surprise.

Woah. Was _not_ expecting that. It had to have only taken a few seconds to completely devour the cube (and splashing its contents on the floor in a metaphor that flew over the Earth-mech's head). Draft smiled - okay, that was really cool - forgetting he himself was made of metal.

What a neat little drone.

It gave a happy little bounce like some kind of alien puppy, and that must have meant it liked him, because then it headbutted his leg as if asking for more. Awww. Draft picked it up and it took the initiative to curl up in his arms, tiny engine purring. OMG. He had no idea whose or what the heck this thing was supposed to be, but damn it if it wasn't cute!

* * *

 **Lol Draft has no idea it's a scraplet. This is gonna be fun. And no, it's not ignoring the chance to attack him because of some magical transformers bullshit, there's actually a logical reason that I'll put in later.**


	13. Chapter 13

/ **You want what now?** /

First Aid was grateful for his facemask. Draft had to be the strangest person he'd ever met, circumstances notwithstanding. The mech's latest request certainly fit the pattern.

/ **Just like, you know, wires and bolts. Spare parts. Stuff like that.** /

/ _ **Why**_ **?** /

/ **I'm testing something. Is that a no?** /

Draft sounded disappointed. Without letting on to the fact that he was on the comm (a big no-no in Ratchet's the medbay), First Aid replied, / **Probably. What are you testing?** /

/ **No offense 'Aid - you're cool and all - but I'd rather not tell you.** /

/ **Then** _ **I'd**_ **rather not help you.** / The protectobot retorted. Ha. There. Take that.

/ **Aww, but-** /

"First Aid, _kindly_ tell whoever you're flirting with you're on duty!" Ratchet's voice snapped like a whip, to a smattering of laughter.

First Aid jumped. "Yes Sir!"

Ratchet was giving him the stink eye. Eventually His-Scariness turned back towards the arm he'd been assembling. Only when he was busy again did First Aid dare to continue. / **Sorry. That was Ratchet. Seriously, what do you need it for? I don't want you pulling a Wheeljack.** /

/ **A Wheeljack?** /

First Aid hmmed. He explained, / **You shouldn't tinker with things you don't understand. Wheeljack has a habit of his inventions, well, exploding, because of that.** /

/ **...Yo….** /

/ **Draft?** /

/ **Isn't that the guy who built my visor?** _**That**_ **Wheeljack?** /

/ **Of course. People don't have duplicate designations like on** _ **Dirt**_ **.** / First Aid supplied.

/ **So what you're telling me is his stuff explodes so often, it's a catchphrase around here? And you let him make my visor?** /

First Aid stifled a snort. Maybe he should have phrased it better, or just not mentioned Wheeljack at all. / **Relax, I designed your visor, remember? 'Jack just built it. His projects only blow up when** _ **he**_ **designs them.** /

/ **You're all insane.** /

/ **Says the guy raised by an aliens. Hey, have you been drinking that medgrade I gave you?** / First Aid said said, switching gears. Back in his room in Ultra Magnus's quarters, Draft glanced at the cube of definitely-not-medgrade on his desk. Sometimes he swore the damn medic could see him.

/ **Um...maybe.** /

/ **Draft, you need to drink those. You're still recovering.** /

/ **Come on, that stuff tastes gross.** /

/ **What do you mean?** /

/ **It's stale compared to regular grade.** /

/ **I assure you, it is** _ **not**_ " **stale". What do you mean by 'taste'?** /

/ **You know, like, flavors?** / Draft said. Had to admit, he enjoyed talking with First Aid like this. The medic didn't mind conversing in English with him every now and then. He'd missed that.

First Aid kept an optic out for Ratchet, but the CMO still looked occupied. / **How does energon have a 'taste'? That's an organic sense.** /

/ **You mean you dont-** / Draft cut himself off, realizing he couldn't describe "taste" and "flavor" without using the other. Taste was just...taste. If the humans had figured out a way to simulate it, he'd figured his own, way more advanced people had done the same.

Draft selected a memory file, pulling it up on his HUD. / **Here, it's hard to describe. You mean you guys don't have stuff like** _ **this**_ **?** /

It was a memory of chocolate. If First Aid claimed he didn't like that, then he really _was_ insane.

Abruptly the comm cut off.

Lying on his side, oblivious to the mini disaster he'd just created, Draft's sightless optics widened behind their visor. Did he just...did First Aid just hang up on him? That was a first. Haha, maybe Ratchet got him.

Perched on his shoulder, the drone chirped.

"I know." Muttered Draft.

The young Cybertronian had been relaxing in his room after that firing range session with Hot Rod, feeding the drone various things. He'd checked the base bulletin via his HUD, only to come up short. It seemed no one was looking for a...whatever this thing was. Did that mean he could keep it? Because seriously, a pet that ate your garbage was _hella_ useful.

And, though he'd never admit it, he was kind of lonely.

/Springer to Draft./

The drone hopped off him, displaying a powerful jump for something so small. Draft watched it explore with a will of its own. /Draft here. What?/

/Hey, what did I tell you about using your _Dirt_ language? Reports./

/Right. Coming./ Guess he wasn't getting out of those. He'd have to figure out where to get more food - trash, spare parts, _something_ metal - for the drone later.

Coaxing it onto his hand, he got up, looking around. His wings drooped. If he took it with him, Whirl or Springer might confiscate it - seeing as they'd taken everything else away. But he didn't have a good place to hide his new friend.

Draft poked his head out the door, careful to hold the drone out of sight. Hmm, couldn't hide it in the main room. Whirl was in there right now.

The cyclops looked up. " _What_?"

"Nothing."

Draft closed his door. Seeing as it was all he _could_ do, the Earth mech gently placed it in the drawer of his desk.

 _I'll come back soon_ , he mentally promised; he left.

Having a very detailed (which was mildly insulting) map courtesy of Springer, Draft knew where to go. The wrecker's room was in the main barracks. It was a lot...smaller than Blaster's had been, barely big enough for two berths stacked on top of each other like bunk beds and a card table in the corner.

Springer _and_ Hot Rod shared this room?

The green Autobot already sat at the table. Draft claimed one of the two empty seats across from him.

" _You_ , are in a lot of trouble." Springer monotoned, unaware of how actually true the statement was.

"What?"

"That is, you would be, if you were a normal recruit."

Confused, Draft sat there for a minute. Was Mean-and-Green gonna teach him how to do his reports, or…? Springer reached out then, handing him the datapad. "So you have your basic format," he said without preamble. "Reports should always look like this."

"But what if I don't _have_ anything to r-report?" Draft asked, briefly ashamed at his impatience.

"You always report something, even if it's nothing. Compute?"

"...I think so."

Springer nodded to himself, unsubspacing a different datapad. "Here's an old one. Usually, you'll only fill half the screen if nothing out of the ordinary happens. Just enough to say, "hey, nothing out of the ordinary happened". And see how this doesn't follow that outline exactly? You can omit the parts that aren't relevant."

Draft listened, glancing at the outline. "Can I keep this?"

"Of course." Springer snorted. "Here, you try."

"What, like _now_?" The imp asked him.

"Yes, _now_."

"You know I've been on m-monitor duty for a **week** , right?"

Springer rolled his optics. "Yes, but surely you've seen _something_ interesting you could write about."

Draft frowned. He wasn't sure what exactly constituted "interesting". What, like fights? Overcharged people? He'd seen one of Blaster's cassettes, a black panther-like robot, exploring the shuttle bay once.

"Nope." He said.

"Fine then, pick a shift from _before_ your..accident."

"Give me a **m** -uh, b-breem?"

"Sure."

Draft thought about it. Let's see. He guessed the most interesting thing that had happened to him - who was he kidding, crazy stuff happened to him so often he might as well be in a bad fanfiction - was when….

"Okay, done."

"Did you remember to write vertically?" Springer asked.

"Yes."

"Left to right?"

"Yes."

"Did you _sign_ it?"

" _Yes_!"

Springer chuckled, finally taking the datapad he was tempting the sparkling to just throw at him (according to Ultra Magnus, it was a favorite hobby). The humor quickly disappeared, though.

"Did I do it wrong?"

"No, this looks good, Draft. You went on perimeter?"

" **Huh?"**

"Silverbolt took you on a perimeter patrol?" Springer clarified.

"Yeah." Draft confirmed, though surely Springer had just read that. "We f-flew around the edge of Iacon."

"Who else was on the patrol? Just you and Silverbolt?"

"Um, no...Jetfire and Air Raid came too. And...S-Slingshot." Draft remembered. "Was I supposed to put that in there?"

Springer ignored him for a second. " _Yes_." He finished reading the report. "Always mention who you're with. I just figured Silverbolt would wait a while before assigning that."

Not a complete lie, if you replaced a while with _never_. Springer wondered if he should mention this to Ultra Magnus when he got back. Taking a new recruit on perimeter patrol with a high ranking officer, far from prying optics, was a sort of test around here. It occasionally ferreted out traitors, who would try and use the opportunity to assassinate the officer.

"Oookaaaaay," Springer mentally filed that disturbing line of thought; was Silverbolt onto them? He slid the datapad back to Draft. "Now that you've done one, you can do them all."

"Awww."

"Come on, if you stay focused this will only take a joor. I know you can do it."

Draft didn't say anything, though whether he was mentally recalculating what a joor was or a way to escape was unknown. Springer wouldn't put it past him. Surprisingly though, the flyer didn't argue. "Okay."

But this was quickly followed by, "On one condition."

"Draft, you _have_ to do these." Geez, how thick was this kid's helm?

"Granted. I will. Can't I add a condition?"

Springer barked a laugh. "That's not how that works."

" _Please_?" Draft pushed, all sparkling innocence. Springer, if only for curiosity, relented,

"That depends. What condition?"

Draft pointed to his trash can. "Can I have that?"

"My trash receptacle?" The frag?

"Just what's in it."

Oh, well that made sense. Not. Springer turned to look at the trash can before turning back around to give Draft the thousand yard stare. "You want my _trash_?"

" **Yup."**

" _Why_?"

"Is that a no?"

" _Yes_ , that's a no, you glitch. Why do you want it?"

"But you're not even using it."

"Yeah, because it's trash. That's what trash is. _None_ of it's usable." Wtf were they even discussing this for? He must want it for something stupid, or something dangerous, and Springer wasn't about to be party to either.

Draft smirked. "You say that-"

"You know what - don't. Whatever it is, the answer is no. Finish your reports."

"But-"

" _Reports_!"

* * *

Ratchet knew some stupid slag was about to go down. Call it a sixth sense, but his medbay never stayed quiet for long, especially mid-shift. He was about to call out First Aid for the _second time_ concerning workplace etiquette - of which using your comm was _not_ a fragging part of - when his apprentice abruptly hit the deck.

Uncharacteristically, Ratchet froze. First Aid?

This lasted less than an astrosecond, and then he was kneeling next to him, trying to rouse him and when that didn't work, taking his vitals.

"First Aid." He shook him. His scans were indicating a processor crash. That in itself wasn't too serious, but still. Weren't those supposed to be Prowl's thing?

" _First Aid_."

"Ratchet!"

Ratchet looked up. Slingshot shuffled in, dragging a knocked out Streetwise behind him. "I need some help over here! He just started screaming and clawing at his mouth and-... _oh_. Is he okay?"

The aerialbot asked, spotting First Aid. That sort of explained it. Not really. Ratchet swore and activated his comm. /Hot Spot come in./

No answer.

Cursing his luck, the CMO ordered, "Slingshot, tell your team to bring the other Protectobots here. I think this has affected all of them."

"Already on it." Silverbolt announced, having been coming in at that very moment. He and Huffer carried Hot Spot's large, _unconscious_ , frame between them. "We were in the rec room and he just went crazy, holding his-"

"-mouth?" Slingshot interrupted. He flicked a wing at Streetwise. "Same here."

"What's wrong with them?" Silverbolt asked, concern for the only other Autobot gestalt coloring his voice. Ratchet took Hot Spot from him.

"Slag if I know, go find Groove and Blades, they aren't answering their comms either."

* * *

 **Hello everybody! I'm back! I've taken the liberty of organizing the previous chapters somewhat. They still have the same content, except now Draft has never met the Dinobots and I've named Bluestreak.**


End file.
